Subterranean HouseSick Blues
by itzaboo
Summary: My own conception of how the House series finale would go. Takes place after the season 8 episode "Chase." Updated rating to M for sexual situations and upcoming descriptions of severe childhood abuse. Just in case.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is my own idea for the House series finale. It came to me complete, in a dream right after watching the episode "Nobody's Fault." As it turns out however, the next episode "Chase" also fits in with this story so the action takes place after that episode. _

_One of the few things that does not fit in with my narrative is Domenica but as I've never felt the validity of House having a green card wife (as well as the speed with which he acquired her) she is absent from this story completely and his marriage to her never took place. Everything else is as occurred in canon up to and including "Chase." _

_The title of this story is based on Bob Dylan's song, "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and the chapters are named after lyrics from that song. The reason for the link to that particular song will be made readily apparent. _

_I hope to move faster with this story as we are all running out of time with our favourite show . I hope you like my take on the House finale and if you do, then feel free to let me know. If you don't, then it's just as well you keep your thoughts to yourself as I don't like or need disparaging commentary about my work._

_Thank you all. _

**Subterranean House-Sick Blues**

_**Chapter 1: Mixing Up the Medicine**_

Limping along at what was for him, a very rapid rate, Gregory House slammed through the door of his best friend's office in his typical, refuse-to-knock style. Halfway across the room, House threw a surreptitious glance in James Wilson's direction. His friend continued to sit steadfastly behind his desk in a manner seemingly oblivious to House's runaway freight train entrance. In fact, Wilson had not moved one iota save for the next moment when he calmly set down his pen atop the stack of papers cluttering his "In" box.

"Okay Wilson. I know that you know." House said as he poured himself like water upon the couch leaning against the far wall. "There's no way you wouldn't know. You of all people would know. So now you're going to tell me what you know so I'll know and then we'll both know."

A small sigh of resignation escaped Wilson's lips as he leisurely stood up, stretched his back and moved to shut the door that House in his haste had not bothered to close behind him. Years of firsthand experience in dealing with House made Wilson hold his tongue in regards to his friend's brusque entrance and so far ambiguous line of conversation.

In the first instance, nothing he could say or do would ever make House respect his privacy. Things like closed doors, private emails or personal bank account passwords were merely temporary obstacles to House's full steam ahead, egocentric approach to the world at large. They were items to be overridden, plowed through or totally ignored.

And as far as making himself understood, Wilson knew that House would do so eventually. After years of vainly attempting to modify House's behavior, Wilson had finally reached the inescapable conclusion that House would always remain . . . well . . . _House._ It was therefore an exercise in futility to try to force him to change.

House always tended to dwell on another plane entirely anyway. His mind connected the multifarious and scattered elements that he so astutely observed with such a quick rationality that Wilson found it hard work sometimes just to keep up with him. And Wilson was himself no slouch in the intellect department.

Yet he inherently knew that he could not hold a candle to House's staggering genius. In this one area Wilson had shrewdly decided against wasting his time being jealous of his friend's mental capacity. Instead, he sensibly used House's brain power to up his own game. Wilson was always somehow better around House, smarter, funnier, a more honest, improved version of himself.

Which was one explanation why, after weathering so many trials and tribulations, their friendship, though oftentimes strained, had not as yet irrevocably broken. The two men remained unwaveringly loyal to one another. And this truth remained paramount even during the many times the relationship did not appear to be on a level playing field.

House's unquestionable genius was one reason for that. Another was his penchant for self-destruction.

Wilson could not help viewing with disdain House's many drug-fueled downward spirals, how he pushed the people he cared most about away, how it seemed he would forever doom himself to be miserable and alone.

But whereas Wilson might habitually feel himself to be the moral superior of the two, House for his part, simply loved and accepted those few he had allowed into his inner circle, Wilson being first and foremost among them. Wilson was for House, "not boring" and he tended to look upon the oncologist as the younger brother he never had.

Nearly from the moment they met, House played the older yet less mature teasing and annoying brother to Wilson's more mutable personality. House constantly pushed Wilson, to improve, be more open with himself and in his own, strange way, House was the one to put Wilson on the road to attain that which he himself sought after but had finally resigned he would never accomplish: to be happy.

For House had finally become bereft of that hope. True happiness could never, would never be his. He was too damaged, too undeserving. It had become simply impossible for House to even imagine a satisfying end to his pain after a lifetime of having seeing his own dreams fade and die off, one by one.

Wilson smiled indulgently at House who continued to drape his long, lanky frame comfortably across the couch, his head on one armrest and his feet hanging over the other. Right now, Wilson was thankful that in their current game of sibling rivalry and one-up-manship, he currently had the proverbial upper hand.

His friend wanted information, information that he apparently had. So in his own, frustratingly slow manner, Wilson took his time crossing back behind his desk and sitting down. It certainly wouldn't hurt House to wait a few moments at least.

But he knew he would not draw the suspense out too long. House had a tendency to get a little destructive when he couldn't get exactly what he wanted in a timely manner. Like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum, House was known to grab and break anything within his reach.

As they were in his own office, Wilson naturally wanted to protect his prized possessions, especially his new Ipad that was unfortunately lying atop a nearby table, well within House's long-armed reach.

"Maybe if you tell me what you're talking about?" Wilson eventually began.

"Don't play coy with me. It doesn't suit you."

"Seriously House. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Geez, do you play this hard to get with all your women too? No wonder you haven't gotten laid in months. You should have been the one to spend some time in the pokey. This kind of formality gets dropped the first day on the inside. If it isn't, the bulls'll knock it right out of you."

"Yeah, yeah. I've seen The Shawshank Redemption too," Wilson said inadvertently releasing another sigh. "Don't give me that crap. Either tell me what you want or get out and let me get back to my paperwork."

House leaned back sinking even further, if that was possible, into the cushions of the couch. He raised his right arm, holding his cane high above his head and began twirling it adeptly with his slender fingers as if he were a drum major and his cane, a baton.

Wilson had known House long enough to recognize his "moments." Moments when his genius friend would let his mask fall, allowing someone to glimpse the humanly flawed person hiding within his carefully constructed, solid walled exterior. It didn't happen often, not even with his best friend.

He regarded House dolefully. Something was eating at him. And House seemed on the verge of having one of those 'moments.'

"Does this have anything to do with Chase? I thought you two healed the breach. I thought he was working for you again."

"I'm NOT talking about Chase," House said disdainfully.

The two were silent for a few moments.

"This IS about Chase isn't it?" Wilson quietly said. "You apologized. You apologized and you really meant it. And he finally accepted it. "

"So what?"

Wilson paused, nervously running his hand through his thick, dark hair. "So, since that worked out for you, you're wondering who else . . ." He raised his thick eyebrows in astonishment. "It's Cuddy. You want to see her, apologize to her?"

House stopped twirling his cane and lowered it placing it against his right leg on the couch. When he finally spoke, Wilson couldn't help but react. He inhaled sharply at the level of emotion he discerned vibrating with each word, each syllable.

"Where is she Wilson? I know you know. I need to see her. Talk to her. Tell her I . . ." House's voice cracked and he was unable to finish.

Wilson turned his head and looked away, almost as if he was witnessing something too intimate, too naked and raw.

"Tell her you're sorry?" Wilson shook his head sadly. "It's too late House. It's been almost two years now. She left Princeton about six months into your prison term. You need to let her go. You need to let her move on."

"Don't you think I know that?" House snapped. He stood up suddenly, limping over to Wilson. The abruptness of House's action as well as the anger etched in every feature of his face made Wilson grateful that the desk still separated them.

"I know you've talked to her, maybe even seen her and Rachel. I KNOW Cuddy. Can you honestly tell me she's moved on?"

Wilson leaned back slightly in his chair. He _had_ seen Cuddy. Every time they'd gotten together they each tried to avoid the subject of House like the plague. Yet it always seemed that by trying to steer clear of a certain subject the energy expended only made it more powerfully come to the fore.

House was the absentee third party whose presence was felt at every meeting, every lunch or dinner they shared. Wilson and Cuddy would forever eventually bring their conversation back around to House. He was the elephant in the room between them.

And when they would finally relent and begin talking about him that was when Wilson saw the change in her. Even after all this time, all these many months, there was a light in Cuddy's eyes where there was none before. As she peppered Wilson with questions about House, his cases and how he was doing, her face would become animated, her voice take on an added warmth and her cheeks flush with anticipation of receiving as many answers from Wilson as he could possibly provide.

House was right. Cuddy had moved away, moved from Princeton, started a new job, built a new life. But she hadn't moved on. Not from the strange, twisted love-hate, needy relationship she had shared with House. The realization struck Wilson that Cuddy hadn't even mentioned going out on a date in nearly two years.

Maybe she was too frightened. At least that's what she seemed to hint at when Wilson and she had engaged in a truly heart-to-heart talk.

But Wilson didn't think that was it at all. When they finally broached the subject of House, Cuddy's eyes flashed, not with anger or fear. Wilson saw love, love only partially hidden by a thin veneer of pain and regret.

And somehow House knew. Like some sort of all-too-accurate psychic, the genius bastard knew. Maybe House's connection with Cuddy was so powerful, so innate that it did border on the spiritual. House knew Cuddy better than anyone else, knew her feelings and emotions, her loves and hates. Maybe, just maybe, House knew Cuddy better than she knew herself.

But was House truly sincere in wanting to make an apology, in releasing her from the stranglehold his love still had upon her? Or would his reemergence in her life simply conjure up so many storms, both past and present, that Cuddy would have to once more weather?

Wilson needed to find out.

"What are you saying House?" Wilson said. "Are you saying you need to see her to apologize to her? To let her move on? You want to see her _for_ her?"

"Yes," House said almost inaudibly. He cast his eyes to the floor for a moment and then raised them to once again meet his friend's astonished gaze. "I've thought about this for a long time Wilson. Long before this thing with Chase happened. But now I know for sure. I've got to let her know . . . I mean she needs to know I don't wish her any harm."

"You sure have a strange way of showing someone you don't mean them any harm, by parking your car in their dining room!"

The pain in House's gaze made Wilson again turn his head.

"That wasn't meant for her."

"Then whose dining room did you mean to crash into? Did your GPS forget to recalculate how to get to the parkway?"

House was glaring at Wilson now. "You were there! You know that I didn't . . ."

"I don't know anything except that I broke my wrist jumping out of the way of your car as you smashed into Cuddy's house! What the hell else am I supposed to . . ."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you either!"

"You weren't aiming at Cuddy? You weren't aiming at me? Who the hell were you trying to . . . ?"

"ME, YOU IDIOT!"

House's face was flushed and he was breathing hard with the effort of trying to rein in his emotions a second too late.

"What?" Wilson said, shock subduing his voice. "I don't understand. I don't know . . ."

House dropped his head and slumped his shoulders. He looked utterly defeated.

"I wanted to die. I wanted to kill myself. Not anyone else." House sighed. "Stupid seatbelt."

"House I . . . why didn't you tell me this before?"

"What good would it do? You can't change the past."

"No. But you can acknowledge your mistakes and then try to move on."

House raised his eyes to meet Wilson's steady gaze. "Yeah, that's what Nolan said. A long time ago."

"Are you trying . . . Are you ready, I mean do you want to move on now? Finally?" Wilson asked.

"I don't know." House's blue eyes seared into Wilson. "But I think it's high time Cuddy moved on. Don't you?"

Wilson's hand brushed forward, the gesture splaying his fingers in the air. "And you don't want anything?"

"For myself? No. I only want her . . . I want her to finally be free of me. I want her to move forward. Be happy." When House finished talking, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

Wilson stood up. Placing both hands on his desk, he leaned his weight onto them, dropping his head between his shoulders. Then he raised his head to look back at House from beneath his lowered brow. House had not moved. All of his questions regarding House's motivations were instantly erased the moment he met his friend's gaze.

No malice dwelt there. Nor any game-playing or manipulation. House's mask of impenetrable indifference had slipped. And all that was left behind was an azure gaze filled with so much anguish, regret and self-loathing that Wilson felt there would never be enough time for it all to ever heal.

"Cuddy moved out of state," Wilson said quietly. "But every six weeks or so, she brings Rachel to visit her grandmother. Arlene still lives in Jersey so you won't be violating your parole by leaving the state." He paused momentarily, looking at House, gauging his reactions. House stood as motionless as if he were carved out of marble.

"This weekend is the sixth week," Wilson went on. "She and Rachel will be at Arlene's this weekend."

House nodded and silently turned back toward the door.

"House! Don't make me regret betraying Cuddy's secret."

House, still facing the door, answered, "I won't. Oh and Wilson?"

"Yes House?"

"I'm sorry about your wrist."

House turned the handle of the door and went through it, closing it behind him and leaving James Wilson staring after him with a look that could only be described as wonderment.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2: The Man in the Trenchcoat  
**_

Arlene Cuddy moved through her house as fast as a woman with a bad hip could go. Her second hip replacement still, at times, made her uncomfortable so she continued to walk with both a limp and a cane.

Just like the genius son-of-a-bitch who'd removed her first deteriorating artificial hip, saving her life.

Greg House had been seeing her daughter for several months before Arlene had finally gone down to the hospital where he worked and introduced herself.

Although if you asked her daughter Lisa, she had in no way, shape or form done anything remotely like 'introducing' herself. In Lisa's opinion, her mother's activities were nothing short of "spying" which was nearly as offensive to Arlene as Lisa's other erroneous label of her motherly interests, 'meddling.' This in turn always caused Arlene to vehemently defend her motives as really only friendly, maternal advice. If Lisa didn't want to take her considerate suggestions, that was certainly her choice.

Just as it was her choice to be a complete and total idiot.

It seemed to Arlene that her eldest daughter unfortunately made the repeated decisions that ensured her own loneliness and misery.

But as Lisa refused to discuss the matter with her, Arlene did not know the particulars surrounding her daughter's final break-up with one, Gregory House. Knowing Lisa's track record in personal relationships however as well as her lifelong penchant for perfection and attempting to enforce her will upon others, Arlene felt she had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

And there was no way, in heaven or hell or anything in between that Greg would have broken up with Lisa.

Arlene had seen them, separately and together. Alone, they each seemed like a half of themselves, a lock without a key. Together, they were nothing short of fire and damnation, intensely engaged with one another and gloriously alive.

She had never seen Lisa like that before, not with anyone else. She had been so vital, so ratcheted up like the maximized volume on an expensive stereo system. And Arlene had seen her daughter with plenty of men before.

She had also seen enough in her lifetime to recognize a man hopelessly in love. And there was no doubt in her mind that Greg House was hopelessly in love with her daughter.

So there was no other conclusion to be arrived at. It had to have been Lisa who must have called an end to the affair.

And the only reason Arlene could think for why her daughter would throw such a powerful love like that away was cold, naked fear.

True, there was a lot to be afraid of when it came to Gregory House. House was headstrong, volatile and overwhelming in his charisma and masculine energy. To Arlene's way of thinking, the man was completely meshuggina.

Yet there was no way he could be otherwise. Only someone certifiably crazy themselves would love her crazy daughter as deeply as Greg did.

Unfortunately, that kind of passion comes at a high price, a price that Lisa was obviously not willing to pay.

Arlene understood this kind of limitless fervor. Her own husband had been an obsessed lunatic in his own right. There were certain concessions that had to be made when one was in love with this kind of person. But to Arlene there was nothing she would change, nothing she would take back, except the fact that she lost this great love of her life far too soon.

Lisa simply did not, or more likely would not comprehend any of this. The same things that drew her to Greg were the same things that later frightened her away. She would not bend to allow the kind of passion that Greg brought with him into her well-ordered, subdued life. And although Arlene knew her daughter would always suffer for it, she simply would not be swayed.

Greg's final melt down in which he crashed his car into Lisa's empty dining room of course did not help his case either.

Strangely enough that action, or in reality reaction to her daughter's heartbreaking desertion of him did not rile Arlene. Clearly, if her granddaughter had been anywhere in the home or if anyone at all had been injured, Arlene would have hunted House down and castrated him with one shot from her 12-gauge shotgun.

To Arlene Cuddy however the act of crashing his car was par for the course. His genius must necessarily be balanced with more than a touch of madness. Arlene knew it. Even Lisa knew it.

But she never respected it.

She certainly knew it all the years before they began seeing each other and even afterward. It seemed however that Lisa simply underestimated House and overestimated herself in her endeavor to try to control and change him. As soon as she became involved with House, Lisa was playing with fire. Arlene felt that her daughter should not have then been surprised then to have gotten burned, particularly after it was Lisa herself who threw gasoline onto the open flames. But it was all too late. Her daughter had sparked the flame and once started, it burned out of control.

While Arlene could find fault with her daughter for throwing away what was obviously the love of her life, in the end she did not blame her daughter for House's final, unanticipated act. And strangely enough she did not blame House either.

She saw this man, a man so full of raging passions pushed to the breaking point until he finally broke. She saw House's deed as a fit of pique, the outward expression of an inward emotion. Arlene was sure if he had really meant to harm anyone else, he would not have just walked away from the scene of the accident. House was nothing if not thorough and if his intent had been to hurt anyone within the building, he would have gotten out of his car and done so. The only conclusion Arlene could reach therefore was that the only person House had probably been trying to injure had been himself.

To Arlene, the truly unfortunate outcome of House's car crash was that he not only smashed through Lisa's dining room but forever slammed the door on any chance the two could reconcile their relationship. That final, mad act convinced Lisa that she was right to sever all ties with House.

And with that decision, Arlene had been personally impacted as well. She no longer got to see her granddaughter Rachel every Friday. Once Lisa moved out of state, visits to grandma's house were curtailed to once every six weeks.

Since they were now separated by a few hours journey instead of a matter of minutes, the increased time between visits allowed Arlene to observe the vast changes that had taken place in her eldest daughter's face, body and demeanor.

Lisa had always been a hard-working professional but she had never before looked so tired. The lines in her face and around her eyes had deepened significantly in a short space of time and her eyes had taken on an empty, saddened quality.

Arlene understood her daughter's stooped shoulders and sorrowful expression. It was a hard thing to walk away from the one man you cared for, even if or perhaps especially if, you were convinced you were doing the right thing.

And for her part little Rachel had not, for a long time, helped the situation any. The child had somehow, beyond the knowledge of anyone else in her family especially her mother, become completely enthralled with Gregory House.

Lisa never explained to Rachel why House was no longer a part of their lives, choosing instead to spare her daughter the sordid details of their breakup. Perhaps too because she felt a little guilty for her culpability in how things had ended she had not shared with Rachel any of the particulars.

But after House crashed into her dining room, Lisa not only refused to talk about him, she also insisted Rachel never mention his name again.

The child had no choice other than to obey her mother's direct order. But that did not stop her from prattling on about an entirely new, imaginary hero. For months, Rachel kept chattering about a great and powerful "pirate king" who commanded the fastest, most feared ship on the seven seas.

When they were alone during one of her six-week visits, Arlene pressed her granddaughter for more details. Rachel described the king as "very tall with a peg leg so he limps, a big gold earring in his ear, and he has a cane and a parrot that sits on his shoulder."

"Oh and gramma?" the child added triumphantly. "He's the smartest pirate there is, that's why they made him their king. And he's got eyes as blue as the ocean."

The king was away on a voyage round the world but would return for her one day and then they would sail away together. Apparently, it would be Rachel's job while onboard ship to swab the decks and feed the king's parrot.

But as the months passed with still no word or appearance of her king, even a child's hopes can fade. Soon her large, round eyes began to take on the same saddened look not unlike her mother's. Her conversations with her grandmother ceased and she too appeared tired and of an age that was way beyond her tender years.

There was no way to fix this. Lisa would not listen to any advice nor would she take any steps to move on with her life. Arlene could do nothing but stand back and watch as her daughter and granddaughter nursed their broken hearts.

And yet as both a mother and grandmother, she knew she must do something. She had to say something to Lisa, get her to see reason, if not for herself, then for Rachel. Lisa had to see Greg, even if it was for one last time and talk with him, yell at him, kiss him or slap him, whatever it took to finally break the hold he still had over her heart and life.

Arlene did not know how to broach the subject but she did know when she would bring it up. This very weekend, Lisa and Rachel and Arlene's other daughter Julie were all coming to visit. At some point, Rachel would leave the adults alone to talk and that's when Arlene would pounce. With all the stealth and ferocity of a mother tiger, she knew she had to impress upon her eldest daughter that the half life Lisa and her Rachel were living now was no life at all. The time had come for Lisa to go back to House and finally decide things with him one way or the other so that she could finally move forward.

The opportunity came much sooner than Arlene expected. Her two daughters and granddaughter all arrived together in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. The short distance from the driveway to Arlene's front door left the three soaked and chilled to the bone. As it happened, first Julie and then Lisa showered and changed while Rachel stayed in the spare bedroom, dawdling over her choice of clothes.

Lisa sat on one end of the living room couch, her legs folded underneath her as she rubbed her damp hair with the towel draped across her narrow shoulders. Julie sat on the opposite end from her sister, comfortably dressed in a pair of navy sweatpants and matching t-shirt.

Arlene came in from the kitchen and made a beeline to the chair closest to her eldest daughter. She did not sit down but leaned her weight against the back of the chair, resting her aching hip. She looked out the nearby bay window at the continuing deluge. Then she turned her eyes back to her daughter who was already watching her intently.

"Oh, oh," Lisa said.

"C'mon Lise," Julie said turning to her, "You knew this was coming sooner or later."

Lisa looked from her sister back to her mother. "Mother, NO. I am NOT having this conversation with you."

"Fine. Keep living your life like a nebbish. That schtick is obviously working just fine for you . . . and your daughter."

"You leave Rachel out of this Mom!" Lisa returned, her nostrils flaring.

"Wish I could. But YOU'RE the one who got her into this tsimmes. So now you're the one who has to get her and yourself out of it."

"Exactly what mess have I gotten us into? Oh yeah, it must be that I moved your granddaughter far away from your controlling influence. Sorry to disappoint you once again Mom, but that was only a side benefit. I actually moved out of state to get away from my insane ex-boyfriend!"

"Greg's not insane. A little meshuggina maybe. Anybody that loves you as much as he did would have to be meshuggina."

Lisa paused. No one had spoken his name within earshot of her for many months. The very syllable seemed to tear at her heart like an eagle's talons.

"There's a big difference," Arlene went on, "between true insanity and fiery passion. You just never accepted that great passion cannot be confined. Not even to the bedroom."

Lisa Cuddy blushed crimson. She opened her mouth to speak but by that time, her mother was talking again.

"You also never realized that once you've had that kind of soul-bending love, you'll never be able to settle for anything less."

"So it's my fault? Is that it Mom? The car crash? Everything?"

"No Bubbula. The car crash is not your fault. But it's not Greg's either. You still don't understand that if you want that kind of passion, that kind of intensity in your schtupping, it's gonna spill over into your life outside the bedroom too. If the man you've fallen in love with is wild by nature, then you have to accept him, just as he is. Being drawn to that kind of thrill, that kind of beauty is a special privilege. You must honor it completely and never try to domesticate it. You can't keep trying to harness him and change him. If you do, you will destroy the very thing that you love about him. That kind of passion floods over into everything and you have to either swim with the tide or be pulled under and drowned by it."

Cuddy was visibly shaken. She'd never considered, never fully understood the ramifications that being loved, truly deeply loved by a man like House would entail.

"Mom . . ." Cuddy began, the tears rising in the corners of her eyes.

Arlene interrupted her.

"A passion like Greg's is like that storm outside, fierce and . . . OY VEY!"

As she was speaking, Arlene gestured with one hand toward the window and glanced outside. Just barely visible through the pouring rain was a solitary figure standing across the street.

"Mom? What is it? Mom?" Lisa said as she leaned forward in concern. Julie leapt off the couch and moved next to Arlene.

"Are you alright Mom?" Julie said.

Arlene nodded and pointed out the window.

"What is it?" Lisa said nearly breathless with anxiety.

"A man in a trenchcoat," Julie answered.

"What? Julie? Mom, what is it?" Cuddy was now gasping for air, afraid of and at the same time, knowing the answer to her next question."

"_Who_ is it?"

Julie finally saw the figure to whom her mother was pointing. "Actually," Arlene said turning to meet her eldest daughter's fretful gaze, "It's Bob Dylan."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3: Look Out Kid, You're Gonna Get Hit  
**_

Lisa Cuddy knew who it was before she got up from the couch and moved to stand beside her sister and mother. Just as she walked across the room, there was a break in the rain, allowing her to see quite clearly the slightly stooped figure of a man standing across the street. The man was leaning on a cane and holding a sign.

The sign read:

_Cuddy? _

She stood there, rooted to the spot.

But not her mother and sister. They both turned simultaneously and made a mad dash for the front door. Arlene, slowed by her cane and bad hip, made it to the door just as her youngest daughter threw it open.

The rain had turned to a light drizzle as the two women stepped out onto the landing.

The first sign was tossed unceremoniously to the ground to reveal another sign behind it.

_LISA Cuddy? _

"I'm calling the cops," Julie said as she turned to go inside.

Arlene grabbed her by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the sort! Wait. Just . . . wait."

Yet another sign:

_Cuddy!_

Lisa moved slowly as if in a dream, emerging from the house to stand on the other side of her mother. But she didn't look at Arlene. She saw nothing and no one but him, only him.

He changed signs again.

_Don't be afraid Cuddy_

_I didn't bring my car_

Like a sleepwalker, Cuddy put one foot delicately in front of the other, moving forward once more.

"Lise, no!" Julie said as she took a step toward her sister. She was stopped by Arlene's increased pressure on her arm.

Cuddy had crossed the entire length of the yard, never taking her eyes off him.

House seemed somehow taller than she remembered but definitely the worse for wear, at least around the edges. Could it be that he had suffered too? That what had happened between them had tortured his soul as much as it had her own?

She reached the sidewalk. But just as she was about to step into the street, House drew out his next sign.

_STOP!_

Cuddy withdrew her foot and stood looking at him from the curb.

_If you stay on your side_

Another sign: _And I stay on mine_

_Then neither of us will be violating court orders _

_Or the conditions of my parole_

So what Wilson had told her was true. House had spent time, a lot of time in prison. He'd felt some remorse for what had happened, what he'd done.

_Okay?_

Cuddy slowly nodded her head.

_You look good by the way._

Cuddy smiled in spite of herself.

_Although your ass is still exerting_

_Its own powerful gravitational field on everything_

_Within a 50-mile radius_

_Time to cut down on the extra helpings of frozen yogurt_

Cuddy was still smiling. Her mouth and cheeks felt tight and foreign from the lack of use of those particular facial muscles.

She continued to gaze at him, an almost spectral figure in the rapidly diminishing rain and just as rapidly increasing evening mists. God! Even though he looked tired, a bit more bedraggled than even the last time she'd seen him, House still looked good. Of the many times she'd dreamt of this meeting, for she knew one day that it would come, she never thought she would feel like this.

Truth be told, once she had irrevocably purged House from her life, she never thought she would feel this way again. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins to her cheeks, her nipples and somewhere below her navel. Her breathing was becoming shallower as her heart was ferociously beating within her chest.

Yes, beating again for the first time in nearly two years.

House had not lost that magnetism that had always so wholly possessed her either. She felt sucked in and drawn to him like a twig in a tornado. Cuddy needed to stabilize herself before her lust, her need and perhaps even her love for him made her run across the street, throw her arms around him and never let go.

_Cuddy? What are you thinking?_

"I'm wondering why you're here," she said loudly enough so that he could hear her from where he stood.

_I needed to see you._

"Why?"

_Okay, I wanted to see you._

"Same question, why?"

_Because I needed to tell you_

House had stopped. He still held the sign in his hand seemingly unable to move to the next.

"What House? What did you need to tell me?"

_God. It's good to hear you say my name again_

Cuddy smiled once more. She'd known him for such a long time. Perhaps that was part of the problem between them. Perhaps because she'd known him, she thought she truly _knew_ him, understood him and therefore took him and the idea that she could ever really know such a complex man as Gregory House for granted.

But once she'd gotten away from him and was no longer in his orbit, she'd found that her heart could do nothing but compare every other man to him . . . and find them lacking. Not only his physical presence, his height, his scent, the masculine sound of his voice, his haunting blue eyes but also his sense of humor, his intelligence, his genius.

Cuddy shook herself. It was taking every last ounce of strength she possessed to stay on her side of the curb and not run headlong into his arms.

"What is it House?"

_I just want you to know_

_It's not your fault_

"What? What's not my fault?"

_Anything. Everything_

_So stop beating yourself up about it_

Cuddy felt her face flush with anger. "I am NOT beating . . ."

_Then why haven't you moved on?_

"How do you know I haven't?" she fairly shrieked at him.

_C'mon Cuddy. Don't lie to me_

_You still have your tell, you know_

Cuddy's mouth gaped open but no words came out.

_I came here to tell you_

_I never meant to hurt you_

_But that doesn't matter I guess_

_Because that's what I ended up doing_

_I'm sorry_

Cuddy blinked back her tears, her shock still making her unable to speak.

_And I came here to tell you_

_You deserve better_

_You always did_

_Better than this_

_Better than_

_Me_

_I loved you_

_I still love you_

_But I have to let you go_

_And YOU have to let go_

_Of the past_

_Of your anger_

_Your pain_

_Your guilt_

_Even let go of me_

_You deserve to be happy_

_I WANT you to be happy_

_I need to know_

_That wherever you are in this world_

_Even if we're not together_

_You are happy_

_So I'm letting you go_

_So you can let go too_

_And be happy_

House stood there. And even in the fading light, Cuddy thought she saw the moisture on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the now completely subsided rain.

_Be happy Cuddy_

_Please_

House dropped his last sign to the ground and then bent forward to pick them all up. When he stood back up, he placed the stack under his left arm while gripping his cane in his right.

"And how do I let go . . . of you House? How do I let go of loving you?"

House turned to look steadily at the now openly weeping Cuddy across the street.

"By saying . . . goodbye." His voice sounded hoarse.

A casual observer may have credited the sound to the damp weather, or a sore throat or not having spoken in quite some time.

But Cuddy knew. House's voice was choked with his overwhelming emotions.

She could stand it no longer. She had to go to him.

But just as she placed her right foot forward, a joyful shout filled her ears. It came from the direction of her mother's front door.

"House!"

It was Rachel. The girl stood poised at the open doorway of Arlene's house but a moment. And then she ran forward across the yard.

Both Arlene and Julie yelled, "No!" as they reached for her, both of their grasps falling far short of the hurtling, dodging child.

Cuddy watched in horror as Rachel rushed headlong out into the street. The little girl never saw the headlights of the oncoming car, the car that would never stop in time.

She felt as if she was standing at the edge of a long, dark tunnel. Through it she could see her daughter and everything around her moving as if in slow motion. Cuddy stood paralyzed, rooted to the spot. She was unable to move, unable even to think.

She was powerless to stop the sounds that assailed her ears as she closed her eyes in terror: of the tires screeching on wet pavement, of the inexorable thud, the sickening noise that metal and fiberglass makes at it strikes human flesh, crushing bone and tearing tissue.

And finally, the last sound she heard: the echo of her own scream breaking long and shrill against the still evening air as if it was never, ever going to stop.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4: I'm On the Pavement**_

House looked down. He was standing on the edge of a towering precipice. There was nothing but sky and clouds surrounding him; nothing but darkness . . . a swirling murky darkness below.

He gazed down into the abyss. It beckoned to him, familiar yet strange, warm yet forbidding. He moved his right leg to step forward into the inky blackness.

"House? House?"

Someone was calling him. Someone familiar. That someone was calling him back, back from the edge of nothingness.

House didn't want to go. He wanted to stay here, where there was no worry, no pain, no despair. There was only the comforting stillness of sable air cloaking him like a shroud.

"House? Can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me."

With a great effort and monumental force of will, House opened his eyes. It took a few moments for him to focus before the familiar face of his best friend swam into view. Wilson's forehead was furrowed with apprehension, his large brown eyes overflowing with obvious concern.

House's eyes fluttered closed again.

"House? Do you know where you are?"

House nodded slightly making his head feel like it would roll off his shoulders. White hot pain flowed through every cell of his body.

He groaned.

"I know it hurts," Wilson said. "Do you remember what happened?"

House's mind flashed back. The final events prior to his entering the shadows stood out in his memory in sharp relief.

He had delivered his message to Cuddy. He had seen her, apologized to her in his own inimitable way. He'd told her he loved her, that he would always love her. He tried to make her understand that only his love for her could make him let her go.

Because he was poison, because he couldn't help but hurt her with his love. He was too far gone, too irredeemable, too damaged. If Cuddy could ever be happy, it would only be without him. So he'd let her go.

He'd just been turning to leave when . . .

House opened his eyes wide in fear. This time, he saw not only Wilson sitting closest to him, but also Foreman and his entire current team standing in the room too.

No.

"Rachel! Rachel!" House croaked, closing his eyes again as he raised his head away from the pillow, his arm lifted off the bed, his hand reaching, trying to grasp something. He was panting with the effort.

"It's okay," Wilson told him as he placed a comforting hand on House's shoulder. "Calm down House."

Behind his closed eyelids, House saw it all happening again with startling clarity. The little girl shouting his name from the yard. Running toward him, past the flailing arms of both her grandmother and aunt.

"She was so fast," House said quietly. "So fast. No one could grab her. She was running to me. Ran right out into the street. Never even saw the car coming. Stupid, stupid kid."

"It's okay House," Wilson repeated.

"It took forever, like slow motion," House continued. "Rachel running into the street, the sound of the car hitting its brakes, the screech of the tires as it skidded, Cuddy's scream." He paused. Then with a lower voice he said, "My God . . . the way she screamed."

"Please House. You're going to have to calm down," Wilson said as House began breathing more heavily and his monitors started to beep rapidly, setting off alarms and buzzers. "I don't want to have to sedate you."

"Like a moron I threw my cane at the car. It hit the windshield. Like that was gonna help."

"House."

"That's when she saw it. At that last second, she saw the car. When she saw it, she turned and looked at me. Her eyes, her eyes . . . she was so afraid."

House opened his eyes again to look at Wilson. The look he gave his best friend stilled any words that came to Wilson's lips. House's startling blue eyes were filled with that same fear he'd just described in Rachel.

"She was looking at me, begging me with her eyes to help. She was so little Wilson. So tiny. And the car, it was so big. I lunged into the street, between her and the car. I tried to grab her, push her out of the way." Tears started in House's eyes. "I don't know . . . Did I make it? I felt her little body with my fingertips just as it all went black."

"You did it House. You pushed her out of the way in time."

House closed his eyes and relaxed back onto the pillow. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

It was silent in the room for some moments as House's breathing slowed once more while he processed this information.

"How is she?"

This time it was Foreman who spoke up. "The two of you were brought in at the same time. Rachel had only a mild concussion and a few minor abrasions from hitting the pavement."

After a long pause, House said slowly, "Then why is everyone here? The only reason you'd all be here is if something happened to Rachel. Or because . . ." House opened his eyes again, searching each and every face in the room for an answer.

No one could meet his gaze, at least not for very long. Park dropped her eyes almost immediately and let loose a very audible sniff. Adams coughed and turned to Chase for support. Chase was only too happy to have her to focus on rather than House's laser-like accusatory stare. He turned to Adams and took her in his arms. Both Taub and Foreman shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

Only Wilson was left. He too looked down to the floor, unable to hold the scrutiny of his best friend's eyes.

"How bad?" House asked.

Wilson cleared his throat. He suddenly felt like he couldn't swallow or couldn't get enough air into his lungs. "House, just stay calm."

House's eyes flashed dangerously. "Just drop the damn cancer doctor voice and answer my question."

"House, you sustained some serious injuries."

"No kidding! I was hit by a damn SUV!"

"How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel you moron?" House was yelling now.

Foreman moved to the open door and beckoned to a couple of nurses at the nearby desk.

"No House, I mean where's the worst of your pain?"

"Why can't you just give me a straight answer?"

Wilson seemed to be trying to gather his strength as the nurses, armed with hypodermics, came into the room.

"Okay, okay," House said, lowering his voice as he glanced warily over at the nurses. "My head feels like one of Gallagher's watermelons so my guess is I sustained a concussion. My chest hurts like hell so that's a few broken ribs possibly causing a pneumothorax. And I wouldn't be surprised if I've got a hip fracture."

"Yes to the concussion, the broken ribs and the pneumothorax. No to the hip fracture. Just some really bad bone bruising," Wilson said meeting his friend's gaze once more. He seemed to be waiting for something else, for some sign from House.

"And as usual not to be outdone, my leg is screaming the loudest. Probably because it's so used to being the focus of all the attention in the pain center of my brain. It's obviously jealous of all these new pains."

Wilson heaved a gusty sigh and looked down again. Likewise, everyone else in the room continued to avoid looking House in the eye.

"Wilson? What?"

Wilson looked up again, obviously steeling himself for his next words.

"Tell me," House said, his voice growing louder once more.

"House," Wilson said after another heavy sigh. "Your leg . . . the pain you're experiencing . . . it's . . ."

House's eyes filled with understanding as he reached his now violently trembling hand down to touch his right leg.

"Phantom pain," Wilson finished just as House touched the bed in the exact spot where his leg should have been.

"No," House said, his voice barely more than a whisper. On the other side of the room, Adams let loose a sob and clung more tightly to Chase.

"House, the injuries to your leg were too severe. It was crushed under the wheels of the car. That, added to the nerve damage caused years ago by the infarction . . ." Wilson's voice trailed off when he looked into House's eyes again.

Foreman continued, "Your leg couldn't be saved. They had to immediately amputate in order to save your life."

House looked at Foreman and then back to Wilson. A single tear trickled down Wilson's cheek.

"Why?" House said so quietly that only Wilson who still sat closest to him could hear.

"Foreman told you. They had to amputate so that . . ."

"Why didn't you just let me die?"

Wilson looked at House. But he saw no tears in his friend's eyes. In fact he saw nothing, nothing at all. No fear, or hope or life. House's eyes were filled with death, the death of his very soul.

"House, I . . ."

"Get out," House said.

"You need time to process this. You need time to heal."

"ARE YOU DEAF? I SAID GET OUT! ALL OF YOU! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

And then everything seemed to be happening all at once. Wilson stood up from his chair and took a step back just as Foreman motioned the two nurses with syringes forward. They grabbed House's arms and began putting restraints on him as everyone else in the room tried to keep from looking at one another.

But especially, they all tried to avoid the startling vision of the now ferociously fighting, screaming House who had at this point been restrained and sedated.

"No. No. No," he continued to repeat over and over. And then, as the sedative took effect, just as his eyes closed, Wilson felt a stab of pain in his heart as he heard House say one word and then become deathly still and quiet.

"Cuddy."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5: Try Hard Get Barred**_

Wilson stumbled out of House's room, his vision completely blurred by the tears now flowing steadily down his cheeks.

His friend was so lost. Lost to circumstances, lost to cruel fate, lost even to Cuddy's and possibly his own friendship. But mostly lost forever to hope.

House's piteous question kept ringing in his ears.

"_Why didn't you just let me die?"_

Wilson couldn't even think of a reasonable answer. Nothing that involved what was best for House anyway. The only answers that rang through his mind concerned his own and everyone else's selfish need to hang on to him, to cling desperately to him as though House was a lifeboat in rough seas even though it was House himself who needed saving most of all.

Why hadn't he simply let nature take its course? Why had they worked so hard to save him when at last House might have been freed from all his pain? Surely no one would have questioned the death of a man so permanently hell bent on self destruction and whose body bore the damage of so many years of that injurious lifestyle?

But no. It was not his or anyone else's decision. House's life should not be forfeit simply out of some misguided sense of charity or compassion. House still had an obligation, to those around him, to his friends though they were few, and especially to his patients whose illnesses only he could diagnose. Perhaps he even had to go on living in order to fulfill some unknown debt that still remained part of his destiny even though it was clear that fate had long ago taken an antagonistic line against Gregory House.

Besides, Wilson had finally come to the cheerless conclusion that he didn't think his own life could go on without the man he loved like a brother.

In a kind of fog, Wilson stepped off the elevator. He had just taken out his key to unlock the door to his office when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"How is he?"

Wilson spun around on the spot and saw the slightly stooped, disheveled figure of Lisa Cuddy standing in front of him. Her usually immaculate clothes were wrinkled, her features careworn.

"He's . . . he's . . . he had to be sedated," Wilson said, his voice cracking at the last word. "How's Rachel?"

"She's alright. She's with my mother. I had to come. I had to . . ." Cuddy weaved a bit precariously in her heels.

"You need to sit down. And so do I. Let's go into my office."

Cuddy nodded and followed as Wilson opened the door and entered the darkened office. She made a beeline for the couch as Wilson moved to open the blinds.

"No. Please. Can we just . . . leave it dark for now?"

"Sure," Wilson said as he walked over to his desk and sat down behind it. He raised his hands to his face and dug the heels of his palms into his closed eyelids. He felt a headache coming on, a migraine for sure.

The two were quiet for some minutes until Wilson leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk and asked, "Are you going to see him?"

"I . . . don't know."

Wilson involuntarily drew back. "After all that's happened, you don't know?"

"A lot's happened to me too Wilson," Cuddy said, her voice acquiring a certain edge to it. "Or have you forgotten?"

"No, of course not."

"Then can you blame me for being cautious?"

"No, but . . . Cuddy, House risked his life to save your child. Can you honestly say to me that his actions don't make up for, even erase some of the things he's done?"

When Cuddy spoke, her voice was as sharp as a knife, stabbing into Wilson's heart. "Maybe my daughter wouldn't have needed saving if House hadn't been there to begin with."

Wilson let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "You . . . you blame House for what almost happened to Rachel?"

Cuddy lowered her face but kept her eyes locked on Wilson's shocked features from beneath her brow.

"Yes," she whispered.

Wilson closed his eyes. He felt as if all the air had left the room.

"He only wanted to set things right with you. He only wanted to help you. He wanted to apologize to you so that you could move on. And still," Wilson opened his eyes again and glared at Cuddy, "You still want to blame him for everything?"

"People who get close to House always get hurt. It was one thing when it was just me. But now, it's my child, my daughter. And I can't let that happen. Ever again."

"He SAVED your child's life!"

"Only after he put her in danger."

Wilson's breathing became shallow as he felt the blood rise to his face. "No. You did that yourself!"

"How dare you!"

"How dare you?" Wilson volleyed back. "Maybe you forget who you're talking to?"

Cuddy paused. She had forgotten. With all her emotions, she hadn't thought of who else Wilson had loved besides House. And lost.

"I'm sorry Wilson. Really. But Amber was an adult and made her own decisions."

"Just like you. You KNEW what he was, who he was. For over twenty years you've known him. You knew he was an addict. You knew he was volatile. Unpredictable. And YOU still chose to go out with him. You still chose to bring him into your daughter's life."

"You sound just like my mother."

"And now you have the unmitigated gall," Wilson continued, "to pretend you didn't know who you were dealing with? Is THAT how you get through your day? By blaming him for everything?"

"He admitted it himself that he WAS to blame!" Cuddy shrieked.

"Of course he did! Because he loves you that much. And hates himself almost just as much."

"Well maybe there's a lot there to hate."

Wilson shook his head, lowering his gaze. "I can't . . . I don't believe this. I can't believe you're saying this. Not now. Not after all he's been through."

"What about all I've been through? All Rachel's been through?" Cuddy said, her nostrils flaring. "I quit my job, a job that I loved. I had to uproot my daughter, my entire life, just so I could . . ."

"No, you didn't HAVE to do any of that. Again, that was YOUR choice Cuddy."

"You think I CHOSE to leave Princeton Plainsboro behind?"

Wilson was struck dumb. Finally, after several long moments, he once again found his voice. "So that's what you left? You left . . . a job? That's what's most important to you? Friends, associates, a man who truly loved you, they don't count as much as a damn job?"

"I didn't mean . . ." Cuddy began before she became lost for words. "People say and do things," she continued after awhile, "that they don't really mean in the heat of the moment. It doesn't mean anything."

Wilson looked steadily at her and said, "You're wrong. It means _everything_. Those are the moments that define who we really are Cuddy. The moments we don't have time to think or prepare ourselves for what we want to say and do or how we want to appear to others. Those are the moments when the real person no longer hides in the shadows of their carefully constructed societal persona. All that crap falls away and all that's left is what really matters. That's when you see a person's true heart."

Cuddy stood up, a look of quiet triumph on her face. "Yes. Like when House drove through my dining room window. That's the volatile, unpredictable mad man he really is."

Wilson nodded slowly. "Yes. He was hurt. He was wounded. And in that moment, he wanted to die."

Cuddy started to interrupt but Wilson waved her off and continued. "He only told me about it right before this last time he went to see you. He wasn't trying to hurt you or me or anyone else. He was trying to kill himself."

"I didn't . . . I never thought . . . I never knew . . ."

"And he's also the same mad man who didn't even hesitate, who threw his cane at a speeding SUV right before he threw himself in front of it. To save a child. Your child. He's one in the same person Cuddy. House is crazy AND courageous, rational and unpredictable, he can be so right and then so spectacularly wrong. He's all those things. You can't separate it out. That's just who he is."

Cuddy staggered back a step or two, shocked into silence. So Wilson went on.

"His first words. Do you even know the first thing he said when he woke up?"

Cuddy, still speechless, shook her head.

"He called Rachel's name. He started fighting us because . . ." Wilson choked up but then soldiered on. ". . . because he was still fighting that SUV, he was still trying to save Rachel. He wouldn't calm down until we assured him that she was alright. Didn't even ask about himself, about his own injuries. He didn't even know . . ." Wilson could go no further.

"Know what? What didn't he know Wilson?" Cuddy's eyes showed luminous with emotion in the darkened office.

Wilson took the forefinger and thumb of his left hand and squeezed tightly on either side of the bridge of his nose. He just had to finish. He had to get through this. He had to unload some of his sickening emotions onto someone else.

And Lisa Cuddy, the woman who stood in front of him now refusing to acknowledge his best friend's selfless act or even the magnitude of his love for her and her daughter seemed as good a person as any.

"I had to tell him that his right leg had been amputated."

"What?" Cuddy screeched.

"You didn't know?"

"No. I mean, of course not. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because House only this minute woke up so we could tell him. He just now found out himself."

Both Cuddy and Wilson were silent. Minutes passed. Finally, she spoke up.

"What did he say? How did he react when he found out?"

Wilson grimaced before replying, "He asked me why I didn't let him die instead."

Cuddy closed her eyes and dropped her head.

"Maybe, maybe . . ." she spoke so quietly, her voice was no more than a whisper. "Maybe you _should_ have let him die. Maybe that would have been the best outcome . . . for everyone."

Wilson felt the hot tears press against his eyes and roll quickly down his cheeks before he had time to try and stop them.

"No," he said stoically, shaking his head.

"If House were . . . gone," she found she couldn't even say the word. "He would finally be free from his pain. Maybe it would be a mercy to just . . . let him go."

"And would let you off the hook too, is that it? You would never have to think about him again. Never have to deal with him again."

"I'm NOT just thinking about Rachel and me. But I suppose you and even House will somehow find a way to blame me for even thinking that too."

"God!" Wilson almost shouted. "This isn't about that. For once this isn't about you. Can't you see that?"

"No. Because House always makes everything about him."

"Is that what you think? Really? Do you think this was just an elaborate scheme of his to try and somehow win you back? And that what happened between the two of you is only about who's wrong and who's right? Who's to blame?"

She raised her face and her eyes to him once more. Her cheeks were streaked with silver tears.

"Isn't it?"

"No," Wilson said evenly. "What House felt for you, what he still feels for you was never about that. When House went to your mother's place this last time, he only wanted to help you, to let you move on. If you can't see the depth of love it took for him to do that, how much he loves you, how much he loves Rachel. If you can't appreciate what he's done and everything he's given up for you, for the both of you, then I don't know what else to tell you."

Wilson stood up and walked to the door as he finished his thought, "No, House will never be the perfect man you seem to want him to be. In fact, he's possibly the furthest person from perfect and normal as a person could possibly be. But all I can say is that if you're so selfish and narcissistic and narrow minded to refuse to see that he gave you everything, he risked his life, he lost his leg for you, for Rachel then I feel sorrier for you than I do for that poor, suicidal, crazy genius upstairs who's had himself cut in half."

Wilson had reached the door when he heard Cuddy behind him.

"Wilson?" she said.

He turned to face her one last time, the tears unbidden and unstoppable streaming down his handsome face.

"Do you know the last thing he said before we put him under? He called your name. House woke up calling for Rachel and went out calling for you. And you won't even go upstairs for one second and tell him, tell him . . . ?"

"What should I tell him Wilson? Should I lie to him and tell him I've forgiven him? Because I haven't. I haven't forgiven him for . . ."

"For just being who he is?" Wilson shook his head sadly. "He never really had a chance with you, did he? The whole time he spent loving you, tying himself in knots to try and be the man he thought you deserved, you just marked the time, waiting for an excuse, any pretext to break his heart. You knew you couldn't control him, you knew he'd never live up to whatever artificial standard you set for him, a standard that not even Superman or Batman, certainly not House could ever live up to. You don't have a clue about what you need and as for what you want, you run away from it as fast as you can."

Cuddy shivered as she heard her friend echo nearly the exact words House had said to her so many years ago, _"What you want, you run away from. What you need, you don't have a clue. What you've accomplished makes you proud, but you're still miserable."_

"Wilson, I . . ."

"Goodbye Cuddy. I hope you find what you're looking for. Although I know you never will. Because you already had it. But once you had it, you had to throw it away with both hands."

Without another word, Wilson opened his office door and walked out. Where he was going, he had no idea.

But just before the door closed behind him, he was sure that he could hear Cuddy, still sitting on the couch, crying like a little child.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6: Ah Get Born, Keep Warm**_

Rachel Cuddy had always been a headstrong child. This singular feature of her personality was most probably a remnant from the difficult circumstances surrounding her birth and the first few perilous days of life.

Rachel had not been breathing regularly when she was born. Her frightened, teenage mother, assuming her baby was stillborn, left Rachel on the floor of an abandoned tenement building after covering her with a winter coat out of respect for the tiny life she had carried inside her but now was no more.

But true to what would become her most distinguishing attribute, Rachel did not die. Instead she tenaciously clung to this new, harsh existence. She wailed. She howled. And someone heard her.

She was found. She was made warm. She was fed. And she stayed alive, surviving long enough for Lisa Cuddy to find her and carry her away from the homeless woman who had rescued Rachel but no longer had the means to care for the infant.

In a way, Rachel had hit the ground battling for her very life. And she seemed to have been fighting ever since.

Not that this was a negative trait when one was adopted into the Cuddy clan. Within that circle of the council fire run exclusively by the overbearing female members of that family, having a pugnacious character was not simply an asset. It was a necessity if one was going to avoid being emotionally steamrollered by their nearest and dearest.

As soon as Lisa Cuddy brought her home, Rachel waged war with her mother on nearly every score a young child can. From the first, she asserted herself as an individual in her own right, fighting diaper changes and being fed. She even fought back sleep, waking Cuddy in the middle of the night merely because she could.

It seemed that her early brush with death made her more aware of the finite quality of this life and she simply didn't want to miss out on anything just because her mother needed a few hours sleep.

But the one aspect of her mother's life that Rachel had always shown the most opposition to had been Lisa's choice of male companions. Lisa Cuddy tended to choose boyfriends according to how much she could control them and boss them about.

That was until the day she'd brought home Gregory House.

From the very first, little Rachel experienced what was for her the closest thing to love at first sight for she found in House a true kindred spirit.

House's gruff exterior could not hide the purity and sensitivity of his heart from the child's astute gaze. And like Rachel, House had always been a fighter.

House too, from the time he'd been born, had hit the ground fighting. But unlike Rachel, the young Greg House had not fought merely to be noticed by a workaholic mother or to gain the attentions of other boisterous family members.

No, House's battles had been singularly different. Waging his war against an abusive father and an uninvolved mother, Greg had to fight, not just at the beginning of his life but throughout its entirety. Survival, not attention, was his main objective and if House had ever concerned himself with looking back, he might have marveled at the fact that he was somehow able to endure the many beatings to finally reach adulthood, albeit with countless bruises, broken bones and bloodletting along the way.

House was an old campaigner who had been dealt more than his fair share of severe blows and pain. Likewise the boy who fought back grew into the man who continued to do so as House stood up against all manner of injustice, as a doctor and in his personal life.

For these attributes and more, Rachel Cuddy had taken an instant liking to him. By the same token, House nursed a soft spot for the little girl who had a recognizably obstinate spirit. He'd taken to her just as she'd taken to him despite his deflections and assurances to the contrary. Rachel and House formed an early and unbreakable bond that was not to be severed, not by her mother's callous breakup with him, not by his subsequent forced exile, not even by Cuddy's forbidding Rachel to ever mention House again.

Here once more, Rachel showed the stubbornness that defined her character. For once she had embraced House her heart simply would not let him go.

At last, after so many long months, her faith in him had been rewarded. House had come back. She saw him standing across from her grandmother's house. She ran to him. But before she could speak to him, a terrible thing had happened.

Her moment of joy at seeing him again took a sudden, terrifying turn. What was more frightening still was that after that brief glimpse, House had been lost to her all over again. And no one, not her mother, her aunt or her grandmother would tell her what had happened to him.

Where had he gone? Why couldn't she see him? No one would tell her.

Everything in Rachel's young life had taken on both a frightening and confusing overtone. A few days afterward, she remembered little about the accident itself, just bits and snatches of sound and emotion; the cries of her mother, aunt and grandmother from the living room, the euphoria at seeing House again, splashing through puddles as she ran toward him, a blaring car horn and House's face, her pirate king's handsome face contorted in fear and agony.

Rachel knew that wherever he was she had to see him, even if it was only once more.

Her mother threatened punishment and ordered her from the room when she talked with her grandma Arlene. Rachel knew instinctively by their hushed tones as she exited that the subject of conversation was House.

She crept close to the door of her bedroom at her grandmother's house so she could listen to the heated discussion. Rachel could hear the tone as well as most of the words thanks to the angry, raised voices. Her mother was saying she wasn't sure if she could go while her grandmother insisted Lisa do so.

The next day, Rachel's mother took her leave without an explanation. Cuddy's only words to her daughter were her insistence that Rachel mind her grandma until she got back and then they would make the two-hour drive to their own home before dark.

The child knew this was her last chance. House was somewhere nearby and once they left to go home, her mother would make sure she would never see him again. And the idea that she might never see her brave pirate king was set to break her innocent child's heart.

Lisa Cuddy had not been gone for more than five minutes when Rachel approached her grandmother.

"Grandma? Where's mama gone?"

"She . . . she had to run some errands," the older woman said sadly. "She'll be back. Are you feeling okay? Is the booboo on your head hurting?"

"It's fine grandma. Grandma? Please? I wanna see House."

Arlene looked at Rachel, a shocked expression flitting across her features. She let out a deep sigh. "I know honey. But your mama said . . ."

Rachel felt the tears come into her eyes. "Please bubba," she said, using the Yiddish name specifically intended to melt her grandmother's heart. "You said last night. I heard you tell mama that House saved me, saved my life. Please bubba. I wanna see him."

Tears had pooled in Arlene's eyes too. "I know you do bubbala." She opened her arms wide and Rachel walked into her grandmother's warm embrace. "And you will. Your mother said you needed to be kept away from him. But your mother's ferblunjit. Just plain ferblunjit."

Arlene gave her granddaughter another quick squeeze before she stood up saying, "Well come on! Mach shnel! Get your coat and let's go."

Rachel did as her grandmother bade and by the time she reached the door, Arlene was already standing there, her coat over her shoulders and her car keys in her hand, ready to go.

"You must promise me something. You must promise me that you will keep this a secret just between us. You must NEVER tell your mother that we went to see House. Promise?"

"I promise bubba. I promise on Davy Jones locker and all the scalawags from hell that ended up there."

"Okay, who taught you that? Who taught you to say hell?"

"House."

"Should've known. Only the biggest shaygets of them all would teach you to swear. Now c'mon before your mother comes home and tries to stop us or I come to my senses and change my mind."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7: Walk on Your Tip Toes**_

House lay there, listening to the sounds of his heart monitor and his own deep breathing. His eyes were closed, not to aid his concentration but to avoid the insufferable looks of curiosity and worse, pity from the staff as they passed by in the hallway outside his room.

He could almost hear their comments as clearly as he heard the squeak of their rubber-soled shoes on the antiseptic tile floors. Those senior members of the staff who doubtless felt House deserved to be laid low by his current predicament. And then there were the newer personnel who hadn't worked with House very much yet, who spoke in whispered tones about the "poor" brilliant doctor who'd lost his leg.

They were all idiots as far as House was concerned with their uninformed opinions and useless attempts to help. Nobody knew how he really felt, none of them.

Initially, House decided to just give up. He set about earning the well-deserved label of "difficult patient" as he systematically resisted all efforts to get him fitted for a prosthetic leg, into physical therapy and simply to get him up and about.

But attempting to fight against the constant barrage of Wilson and the rest of the medical staff and the drugs they used on him was akin to trying to stop the sun from rising. No one at the hospital would allow him the freedom to make his own decisions about himself and his life. Not if it flew in the face of what they thought he should do.

So House immediately switched to plan 'B.' He would play along. He would be the model patient, the 'good boy' up to and until he found a way to put a permanent end to his misery by ending his life.

He knew well not to overplay his hand. That was important. But he would start to make progress with his rehab just enough to lull his hovering best friend and the rest of the staff into a state of complacency and to convince them all that Greg House had gained a more optimistic outlook.

His plan had already yielded success, particularly over the newest nurses at the hospital in charge of his care. No longer giving him pain medication and sedatives in his IV line, they had foolishly begun to trust him with pills. And House had always known how to cheek a pill.

He had nearly enough now. He'd also begun tampering with his monitors and feigning innocence when the nurses came in to check the machines. When he was ready, all he would have to do would be to disconnect the right cables and it would be the perfect example of the boy who cried wolf. By the time anyone got around to checking on him, the one-legged doctor would be dead.

Finally, finally, he would be relieved of his insurmountable pain.

His leg was no longer his worst torture, in fact it never had been. Over the course of the last few days, the phantom pain he'd felt at first had begun to dissipate.

But the anguish House faced day after day in his heart and his mind even his soul if he had one, showed no hint of ever vanishing. Only the finality of death could make his emotional agony know a lasting end.

House was looking forward to it. Desiring it like almost nothing else before. Only when his father had beaten him bloody could House remember wanting to die this badly.

Behind his closed eyelids, House could still see his father leaning over him, doing things to him, hurting him so badly . . .

House coughed but the memory only wavered for an instant. It was still there. Greg felt so little lying on the floor, so terribly beaten he could no longer cry out, even if he'd wanted to. What he did instead was move his lips in a silent prayer, saying over and over again, "Please let me die. I don't want to live. God, just please let me die."

But God never heard him. Or if he did, he refused to answer. So House had stayed there, on that floor, in that family, his father's favorite punching bag and when John House was really drunk, worse, far worse.

House felt tears start in his eyes as he slowly opened them. There, standing silently at the foot of his bed was Rachel.

"Why are you sad?" she said.

House quickly turned his head to the side, wiping his eyes as he did so. Arlene stood on that side of his bed, also noiselessly watching him.

"You don't announce yourselves when you walk into somebody's room? You should know better Arlene. What if I was doing something dirty?"

"Rachel and I thought you were asleep."

"Was it your idea to bring the kid here? What did you do that for? She doesn't need to see me. Not like this."

"No it wasn't my idea," Arlene said. "It was Rachel's. She needed to know if you were . . . alright."

House turned back to look at Rachel. "I'm fine kid. And now that you've seen for yourself, you can go home."

"No," Rachel said, a small but distinctive pout forming across her lips.

Even though she wasn't Cuddy's biological daughter House noticed that her little face bore an uncanny resemblance to her mother's the thousand or more times she'd said "No" to some crazy procedure he'd wanted to perform on a patient. For him the similarity was both familiar and heart wrenching. He looked down at his hands lying on the sheets to avoid the child's stubborn look.

"No isn't an option," he said. "I'm not feeling so good and I'm stuck here in this hospital bed. So that means you and your dragon of a grandmother need to leave."

"No," Rachel said again. "I wanna stay."

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn what you want," House said raising his eyes to the child's face once more. "What you want is not my problem."

"Greg," Arlene interjected, "If you would try not to be such a schmuck for five minutes . . ."

"I don't know," he said turning to look at Arlene. "Five minutes is an awfully long time for me to go without being a schmuck, an ass or what have you. Is this a timed event? Do you have a stopwatch?"

"Oy vey! I don't know how my daughter ever put up with you."

"Well she didn't put up with me. Not for very long anyway. In fact, she really never put up with ME at all. I always needed to be different for her. Walk on eggshells around her."

"You can't be serious. When did you ever walk on eggshells for anyone? More like a bull in a china shop."

"Now that's REALLY a load of bull. I won't finish that statement 'cause the kid's here."

"And do you know WHY she's here? Did it even cross that supposedly brilliant mind of yours?"

"Let me guess. How many chances do I get? Don't worry I won't waste any of them thinking your daughter sent her."

House's face held no emotion as he said this last. But Arlene caught the pained expression in his eyes. She saw there too no hint of hope; only a tragic, wretched despair so overwhelming that she could no longer meet his gaze and instead looked down at her own shoes.

"HOUSE!"

The shout startled both House and Arlene who turned their heads at the same time to look at the small whimpering child who had been momentarily forgotten in the heat of their argument.

"What?" House said.

But Rachel could no longer answer. She was biting her bottom lip, again the mirror image of her mother, as her tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

"The last time she saw you," Arlene said in a near whisper, "You'd been hit by a car. You'd pushed her to safety but gotten hit by that car. Can't you see? She was afraid you'd been killed. She thinks it's her fault."

House continued to look at the now openly weeping child. He said nothing at first and then raised his arms toward her.

"C'mere matey."

Rachel threw herself the last few steps to House's side. Arlene boosted Rachel up onto the right side of the bed. From force of old habit, the child turned to avoid House's bad leg. But it was too late. She'd already directly landed on it or rather on the spot where it should have been. She brushed her hand across the sheets as her eyes grew wider and her sobbing grew harder. House shifted uncomfortably but put his arms around the small girl who leaned into his embrace.

"Shhhhh. Stop that now," he said quietly. "If you keep that up, you won't ever be able to swab the decks. The crew'll make you walk the plank."

"Bbbbut wwhat hhappened to yyyour llleg? Dddid I . . .?"

"You did _nothing_. This is NOT your fault. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me?"

He could feel the child nod her head as she continued to lean against his chest.

"NONE of what's happened, not to you or to me or even between your mother and I is your fault. Understand?"

Rachel nodded again as House looked for a moment at Arlene. The tough older woman looked as though she were fighting back tears as well.

"Wwhat hhappened to yyour . . .?" Rachel's muffled voice came out from between two heaving sobs.

"Oh, that old thing. I got tired of it. Decided to trade it in on a peg leg. What kind of pirate captain would I be if I didn't have a peg leg or hooks for hands?"

Rachel began to quiet down. She leaned back away from him so she could see his face, judge the truth of his words in his eyes.

"Never liked the idea of a hook. Besides, I could really do some serious damage with a hook if I forgot about it when I went to scratch my . . ." He slyly glanced from the corners of his eyes to verify the look of horror on Arlene's face before he continued. "Anyway, I went for the peg leg instead. Don't you think that'll be worth a few pieces of eight matey?"

Rachel sniffed loudly and nodded again.

"Well okay then. Dry up those tears ya swabby. Don't you remember? No crying onboard ship. Otherwise the parrots will learn that instead of all the dirty words you're supposed to teach 'em. Have you been practicing your pirate words?"

This time Rachel looked down and shook her head.

"Well shiver me timbers. No pirate worth his salt is allowed to sail the seven seas until they've learned how to talk in pirate speak AND how to use all the best dirty words besides. Why don't you give your bubba and me a few minutes alone, go out in the hall and practice?"

The child swung her feet off the bed and left the room, heading down the short hall to the nurse's station. Arlene felt a stab of pain sear through her heart at the expression on House's face as he watched Rachel leave. His eyes held such a wealth of sadness that she didn't know how any one man could bear it.

In an instant, it was gone as he closed his eyes and whispered, "She's not coming is she? She's still refusing to see me?"

"Greg . . . I'm truly sorry. I tried . . ."

"No, she's right, she's right," he said shaking his head. "After all, look what nearly happened the last time I tried to make things right. She nearly lost her daughter."

Arlene gasped. "That was NOT your fault. You SAVED that child!"

House looked at her from the corners of his eyes again. But the expression this time was so wholly different, so bereft of hope that Arlene could not meet his gaze for long.

"Yeah, well maybe Rachel wouldn't have needed saving if I hadn't been there in the first place."

Arlene clenched her jaw and looked back at House. "You idiot. You unbelievable, meshuggina idiot! How can you still believe that? How can you think these things about yourself when my granddaughter STILL remembers you? After all this time? You are important to that child which shows what a mensch you truly are, no matter what you or Lisa think. If you think that you're responsible for what almost happened to Rachel and don't take the credit for _saving_ her life then you're just as meshuggina as my daughter and it shows how much you two deserve each other."

"Then Cuddy blames me too . . . for what happened."

Arlene brought her hand to her lips. She'd said too much.

House nodded his head and closed his eyes. He was done.

"Greg, if you'd only just listen for a moment, listen to reason . . ."

"Don't you think you'd better get Rachel home before Cuddy gets there? There'll be hell to pay if she finds out you brought her to see me."

"Greg . . ."

"No!" House's eyelids flew open again and all the pain Arlene witnessed there before still swirling around within the depths of that vivid blue took her breath away.

"That's enough," he said. "You've done your duty as a grandma and brought Rachel down here to see I'm okay. But now you need to do your duty as a mother and get her home before your daughter finds out you've gone."

Arlene, perhaps for the first time in her life was rendered speechless. The pain and agony in the room emanating from House was so palpable her movements became sluggish. She felt as though she was wading through high surf as she walked to the door. When she reached it, she gestured to Rachel who came running to her side.

"Goodbye House," Rachel said, waving her small hand.

"Avast matey. Weigh anchor, smooth sailing."

Rachel smiled widely, broke free from her grandmother's slight hold on her and ran to House again. Before he could react, she'd leaped up onto the bed and enveloped him in a child's worshipful hug.

House choked slightly but held it together. He hugged her back.

"I love you Pirate King," Rachel whispered to him. "I love you. I'll always love you."

"Yeah, I know."

Rachel looked at him, quite serious for a moment. "Say it. Say it Captain!"

Arlene called from the doorway, "We have to go now bubbala."

The child kept looking at him as House nodded slowly feeling his heart break all over again.

"Say it," Rachel repeated.

"I love you too. Now shove off ya little scalawag."

"Aye, aye Pirate King!" she said as she scampered back to her grandmother who, with her own eyes shining with tears, mouthed a silent, "Thank you. Thank you for everything," and then turned to go.

House watched them walk down the hall until he could no longer see them. His chest burned and his cheeks felt wet as his tears, so long held back, began rolling down his face.

It was the last time he would ever see the child again. He would never know what kind of young woman she would grow into, would never know what had become of her . . . or her mother.

House could take no more. He looked at the clock. Wilson wouldn't be down to visit for at least another hour or so. He unhooked the wires and disabled the necessary monitors. He got out his secret stash. It looked a little small but it was enough.

It had to be.

Pouring himself a tall glass of water, he took all the pills in three swallows. Then he lay back down on the bed and waited, hoping against hope he wouldn't have to wait too long.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8: It's Somethin You Did**_

Wilson had never particularly considered himself an optimist. As the head of PPTH's oncology department he had, over the years, lost his fair share of patients to cancer. Like the last glowing embers of a dying fire, their names and faces were burned into his memory and would summon themselves to his recollections in the long hours of his sleepless nights. In James Wilson's line of work, optimism therefore was a luxury he could scarcely afford.

Neither could that more positive outlook be applied to his personal life. He'd been divorced three times and suffered the failure of enumerable other romantic relationships including the recent rekindling and subsequent collapse of his relations with his first ex-wife Sam (how stupid was that?).

In point of fact, James Wilson was much more of a pragmatist. He occasionally considered calling himself a cynic but knew that description must always belong exclusively to his best friend Gregory House. For no one in Wilson's circle of extensive knowledge had ever held a candle to House's particular brand of intransigent cynicism.

Yet, who could blame him? While Wilson had been spared the sordid details, he felt absolutely certain that House's childhood, though still shrouded in shadow, had been extremely difficult, if not downright brutal. And from the infarction that caused the loss of mobility in his right leg, simultaneously costing him Stacey, the woman who may have been the love of his life, up to more recent tragic events it seemed that nearly everything in House's life had continually taken a turn for the worse if not the catastrophic.

As far as the last several years were concerned, House's life had hit an all time low. His steady, downhill progression toward madness, death or both at times seemed to be of his own design while at others, simply the preference of cruel Fate. At the same time, Wilson had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the part he'd played in bringing about even greater levels of pain and despair to House's already overburdened psyche.

He could no longer say with definitive clarity whether his own motives had been pure or not. In fact, in his heart of hearts, Wilson knew that his dealings with House had been patently far from fair and above board and perhaps he had meddled in his best friend's life once too often for the good of either them.

Wilson wanted some personal time with Sam early in their attempt at reconciliation. Consequently, he had pushed House out of the condo the two men had been sharing. Falling only mere months after House's detox from Vicodin and subsequent release from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, these forced changes had occurred too fast, too early and way too soon for House to be living back on his own.

Added to that, the increased time spent with Sam meant a huge decrease in available time to spend with House. Wilson had, for all intents and purposes, cast House adrift and alone at possibly the most vulnerable time of his entire life.

At the same time as he pushed House away, he was also pushing House and Cuddy together. Only now in hindsight could Wilson grasp the idea that he'd been uncharacteristically optimistic in thinking that everything would all work out alright.

House had been too unstable, too fresh from his battles with Vicodin and his other innumerable demons to be encouraged into participating in any kind of romantic entanglement, particularly one which involved his controlling, pitiless boss.

But Wilson had assumed that romance might be good for the both of them. Perhaps Cuddy could somehow smooth House's rougher edges and with her daughter, provide the stabilization House needed. And Cuddy herself could benefit from House's unremitting passion, loyalty and his deeply-felt devotion and love.

How wrong he had been.

Wilson had not seen that Cuddy's feelings for House had not been anywhere near mutual. While some part of him may have recognized that she did not love House as much as he loved her, Wilson had been completely blindsided by the discovery that she did not, in fact love House at all.

House to her had apparently been merely a pet project, a foundation upon which she might construct her own personal bronze statue of love, only after tearing down the man who stood there to begin with. Cuddy needed to control House in every facet of his life. She wanted to force him to be her genius show pony at work, parading him around to donors in order to wring from them their generous contributions. In their personal life, House was required to satisfy her every whim, in and out of the bedroom as well as be the perfect husband to her and perfect father to Rachel.

But House was far from perfect.

His love for Cuddy kept him jumping through her flaming hoops for quite awhile however, though it was only a matter of time before he tripped and set himself and perhaps those around him ablaze.

How had Wilson been so wrong footed? How could he have not seen how selfish and malicious Cuddy truly was?

And now this latest nail in House's coffin. He had gone to make his peace with Cuddy and fate had once again laid him low.

Even after risking his life and losing his leg to save her daughter, Cuddy's heart remained unmoved. She would not see House, would not even talk to him over the phone. And Wilson felt that this, more than anything else would be the ruination of his best friend's life.

Just the same, Wilson found himself holding onto a small flame of optimism that something he'd said to Cuddy had gotten through to her. Or maybe after she had given herself enough time to think about all that had happened she would come around to a better, more forgiving outlook and might even come by to see House to thank him or at least make peace with him.

It was quite a stretch yet he still found himself musing about the possibility and how that outcome would go a long way to heal not only his best friend's wounded heart, but allow Cuddy to face some of her own selfish demons as well. And Wilson remained convinced it was the only way either one of them could move forward with their lives.

This uncharacteristic optimism was why he continued to have hope. And it was also why he told House's nursing staff to keep him informed of any visitors to his best friend's room.

That was why he got the phone call that brought him down to House's floor far in advance of his usual visiting time.

The elevator doors opened and Wilson walked right over to the nurses' station, a slight smile on his handsome face.

"Dr. Wilson," the young and Wilson also noticed, very pretty blonde new nurse said, "You've already missed them. They left just a little while ago."

Wilson sighed. "I was afraid I might miss them. But I was with a patient so I couldn't come down right when you paged me. You said 'they?'" Wilson felt a thrill of hope surge through him.

"Yes. There was an older woman and a little girl."

At this remark Wilson frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. Lisa Cuddy could be described in many ways but 'older' wasn't usually the first adjective that came to mind. "Oh. What did they look like?"

"It was an older woman, with a cane. And a little girl. Sweet-looking little girl but her language left something to be desired. What I heard anyway."

Another nurse listening in on the conversation from several feet away sidled over. "It was Dr. Cuddy's mother and daughter Dr. Wilson. I recognized them both."

Wilson's expression brightened a little. "You're sure?"

"Oh yes. Though she's a lot bigger, I recognized Dr. Cuddy's daughter almost right away. And I remember her mother because I was one of the nurses on shift when she was admitted here about two years ago."

"Arlene does have a way of making a lasting impression."

"She does that," the second nurse said as she chuckled ruefully. She turned her attention to the new nurse. "Emily, it looks like those monitors in Dr. House's room have come unplugged again. Why don't you go in there and reconnect them?"

"Yeah I know. I'll get to them in a minute," Emily replied.

Wilson had picked up a nearby clipboard, pretending to casually check its contents while in reality, working up the right words to ask Emily to dinner. This latest exchange however made him turn to look at both nurses. "When did the monitors go off in Dr. House's room?" he queried, raising an eyebrow as an intuitive shiver ran down his spine.

"Oh there's nothing to worry about Dr. Wilson. They've been malfunctioning several times a day recently. Dr. House says he never knows how they get turned off. He must unplug them when he rolls over in his sleep I guess."

"WHEN did they shut down? WHEN?"

Emily was slightly shaken by the harsher tone in Wilson's voice. "I guess just after his visitors left. I didn't really notice."

But Wilson was already running in the direction of House's room before she'd even finished answering.

As he reached the doorway, the sight that met his eyes was the stuff of some of his worst nightmares, the realization of his greatest fear. There, before his very eyes, House was in full blown seizure, his eyes rolling back in his head, his spine arching away from the mattress and flecks of foam and vomit in the corners of his mouth.

"Call a code!" Wilson yelled at Emily and the rest of the nurses, three of whom were already racing down the hallway toward House's room.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9: The Pump Don't Work**_

At first, House felt all the physical agony, the white hot stabs of pain in his brain, chest and limbs as his body fought valiantly against the poison entering his bloodstream. But eventually he knew his physical self would have to succumb. It would stop struggling, eventually everything would quiet, his muscles and nerves would stop pulsing, his mind would stop racing and his heart and breathing would slow and still. All would be calm and silent.

And he would finally be free of pain.

But as he felt half of his body begin to fade, his senses seemed to accelerate and become even more distinct and aware. Whether real or imagined, the byproduct of the synapses firing in his dying brain or something else again, House could see a thousand brilliant colors dance like the northern lights across the scope of his closed eyelids. His nostrils filled with the scents of hewn oak, damp forest moss, decaying meat, electricity and scorched flesh.

And from somewhere far away, House could hear music. It started slow at first, eventually increasing in both tempo and volume. He heard the deep reverberation of a bass fiddle as its strings were methodically plucked, the shrill pitch of a slide guitar and the unmistakable twang of an old, weathered Martin.

It was a blues song, Delta blues to be more precise and as all blues music had done throughout his life, it spoke to him, _for_ him as it echoed inside his still-beating heart.

The arrangement was different from the recording he possessed in his record collection. But the vocalist was still the familiar Howlin' Wolf who sang:

"How many more years, have I got to let you dog me around  
How many more years, have I got to let you dog me around  
I'd soon rather be dead, sleeping six feet in the ground  
I'm gonna fall on my knees, I'm gonna raise up my right hand  
I'm gonna fall on my knees, I'm gonna raise up my right hand  
Say I'd feel much better darling, if you'd just only understand"1

Then a different song began to play at the same time as the first.

"Just lay my body  
Lay my body in six cold feet of ground  
Just lay my body  
In six cold feet of ground  
Well I will be the loser  
When that deal goes down"2

The vocals of the second song blended with, then overrode the first. The two songs clashed and circled round each other creating a weird discordant harmony. The notes and lyrics seemed to grow in intensity as if they were no longer only sound but solid and tactile. House felt the music inside and out, wrapping round and through him like the tendrils of a vine. They began to tickle and press against his flesh at the same time as they propelled him forward into nothingness.

Just as he heard the songs fade and felt his physical self relax and give in to the void, something or someone else began to hold sway over him. It was closer, much closer than when the music first started.

House heard voices, some raised in anger others in distress and frustration. His body felt hot and cold as needles were plunged into his skin and tubes shoved inside of him.

But these pains too became separate and isolated as House began floating, disengaging himself from this life and the anguish that was his known, daily experience.

Strangely enough, his body which at first fought against his decision to die had begun to violently resist the efforts of those who were outside the cloak of darkness even now trying to save him. His corporeal self had finally aligned with his misguided resolve until the entirety of his being, all that which was Gregory House, fought to end the misery of his life and simply die.

Amidst his uncertainty and pain, he heard a familiar voice, barking orders, panic-stricken, fighting hard for the life of the man who had, on the face of it, so carelessly thrown it away.

House couldn't help but feel sorry for Wilson. He could only hope that perhaps Wilson would one day come to understand that he was much better off without him. It would be hard for his best friend to grasp at first but House felt sure that he would eventually come to the realization that this act, though apparently selfish, was House at his most _selfless_. He was giving Wilson his life back, freeing him from the pain and worry which friendship with one Gregory House must always beget.

All of the people House loved, yes loved, would be better off without him. Cuddy's shrill voice echoed inside his head, "People who get close to you get hurt." He was tired of hurting those he loved, hell, he was tired of hurting himself. He had to save them, save them all from the sorrow of knowing him, caring for him, watching him time and again go down.

True, they might feel a twinge of regret at his death but that would pass. The people House loved would, in the end, be able to move on much further without being tied to him, like an albatross around their necks.

Wilson might eventually remarry and hopefully, without House's negative influence, be able to ride out the relationship to a more satisfying end. Foreman would finally be liberated from the feeling of having to look after his old boss. Chase would come out from beneath House's overly large shadow and forge for himself a shining career in his own right. The rest of the team would be just fine.

And Cuddy . . . Cuddy would never again have to worry about House. She would finally be totally free.

Oh how he would miss them all. But that period of mourning, like theirs for him, would be brief, his own grieving would occur in those last few minutes of life before the darkness took him and his thoughts, like his pain, would at last be no more.

However, while Wilson might one day be at peace with House's decision, his current resolve was entirely opposite. He just would not let his best friend go. House could hear him still fighting, still struggling on what he thought was House's behalf.

"_Let me go Wilson,"_ House's thoughts drifted dispassionately across his mind. _"It's okay now. Just let me go."_

The tube that had been shoved down House's throat scraped and hurt as in the next moment he felt it emptying the contents of his stomach. He vaguely hoped enough of the pills had reached his bloodstream before they pumped him out.

Although his arms and left leg felt like lead, House remained conscious enough to realize they were strapping him to the bed. Had he been moving his limbs against their efforts? He wasn't sure.

More voices, more Wilson, more monitors, more tubes and needles all raining down on him, pelting him like large, icy chunks of hail. And House lay there the whole time, completely impassive to the efforts of everyone else in the room. It seemed he was poised on the edge of a knife and whether he fell toward life or death no longer mattered to him.

But it certainly mattered to Wilson. And to those who fought alongside him to save House's life.

Their efforts were single-minded, unified and strong. Just as House gave up caring one way or the other and began to slip into the shadows, his attendants surged forward, grabbing hold of him and crossing the finish line a hair's breadth ahead of the fatal intentions of Gregory House.

He was alive.

Time had no meaning in the twilight lands of House's existence. It might have been hours, it might have been days, but slowly, grudgingly, House experienced the physical pain that ushered him forth and reminded him that he hadn't left this life. At least, not yet.

"You idiot," he heard Wilson's familiar voice rumble next to him.

House tried to turn his head to look at his friend but couldn't. He felt a tightness across his forehead signaling that his head had been secured to the mattress.

He struggled to move his arms but they too were secure and allowed no freedom of movement away from the bars of his hospital bed. House then endeavored to speak but a tube in his throat turned his language to nothing more than inarticulate grunts and groans. Deprived of any other recourse, House began to voice his frustration through volume alone since words had been denied him.

"Shut up," Wilson said. "Just shut the hell up. You've got a breathing tube down your throat genius and you're strapped to this bed to keep you from pulling another stupid stunt like that."

House opened his eyes but could only look at the ceiling because of the way his head was positioned on the bed. He groaned.

"Yeah, that's right. You're not going anywhere just yet. Not if I have anything to say about it."

House rolled his eyes to the side where he could just make out Wilson, sitting next to his bed, holding his head in his hands. He grunted, trying to convey to Wilson to take the tube out of his mouth so he could talk. He needed to tell Wilson that it wasn't his fault, he needed to tell him why he'd done it, how he was so tired and still in such unbearable pain.

Wilson raised his head in response to House's continued moaning. House could see that Wilson had been crying.

"Shut up House. You're not getting that tube out. Not for awhile."

House moaned loudly.

"Yeah, well this one time I don't give a crap what you want. I'm going to do what I want for a change. And what I want . . . what I need is to get away from you for awhile."

House just looked at Wilson, an unbelievable look of hurt in his eyes.

"I'm going away for awhile. I don't know for how long. Call it a sabbatical. I don't know. Maybe you'll do better without me around, without me to fall back on. But I need to do this for me. I need to get away from Cuddy and her poison and you and your particular brand of crazy and the fact that you would rather die than give yourself a chance at life without your goddamned leg."

House tried to tell Wilson that he was wrong, that his leg had nothing to do with him wanting to die. Hot tears of frustration and pain filled his eyes as he tried to move, tried to speak but was held fast by his restraints.

Wilson stood up just as a nurse came in. Wilson nodded to her, "Go ahead and give it to him. He needs to settle down."

House let loose a scream muffled by the tube when he felt the needle slide into his flesh. _"Wilson, Wilson, listen to me. Just listen to me. Wilson,"_ rolled over and over in his mind as he felt the drug begin to take effect.

"Goodbye House. I'll see you when I get back. I hope . . . I hope I see you when I get back. I hope you give yourself a chance. I still think you deserve it . . . even after everything that's happened. I still think you owe it to yourself.

Wilson's retreating form was blurred in House's sight, both from the drug and from the tears that had begun leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"_Wilson, don't leave me. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me all alone in the dark. Please." _

And then House knew no more.

_1: Lyrics from "How Many More Years" by Howlin' Wolf_

_2: Lyrics from "Six Cold Feet" performed by Hugh Laurie_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: While we are all learning the latest changes/updates to this site, I would like to remind people reading my stories that "Reviews" are supposed to be about the particular story you're reading not for disparaging or attempting to start arguments with other reviewers. And that especially goes for the people who don't even have the courage of their convictions to properly sign in and attempt to hide behind the cloak of anonymity of "guest." I can and have deleted those types of reviews as they are totally unnecessary. Also, if you feel the need to knock me personally or my work then don't review IN ANY MANNER. Quite honestly, I've NEVER seen a truly constructive piece of accurate criticism and I would also definitely have to see proof of purchase before I accepted any, i.e. who are you to tell me my writing sucks if you, yourself are in fact a sucky writer?_

_But enough negativity, I want to thank the majority of folks that continue to send me positive feedback and are supportive and interested, even enjoying any of my stories including this one._

_And now the chapter that reveals the crux of the dream that this story is based on. Thanks for reading. _

_**Chapter 10: Lookin for a New Friend**_

How many days had passed, House hardly knew. They ran together in an indistinguishable patchwork of forced tests and procedures, fighting against his restraints and drug-induced sleep.

When he next became aware of opening his eyes, a general haze pervading the room made it impossible for him to separate light from shadow. Shapes slid one into the other in a blurry, color-filled tapestry while there remained around the edges a bright halo separating each from the other and drawing out the objects from the darkness that crept like ravening wolves along the borders of his vision.

The sound of a groan filled his ears. At the same time he heard it, he also vaguely realized he was the one who had emitted the noise.

His throat still hurt from the tube that had been forced down his throat but was no longer in place. His mouth was parched, his tongue swollen.

House ran his tongue thickly along the inside of his cheeks and across his teeth. Smacking his lips in a chewing gesture, he continued to struggle to focus his vision. He blinked his eyes a few times but was unable to see anything beyond fuzzy shapes bleeding into one another. Lazily, he decided to close his eyes and keep them shut in order to stop the slight rotation that had begun to make him dizzy.

"Water," he whispered through dry lips.

Although he couldn't see, he heard movement in the room. He tried and failed to raise his arms.

"Nope. You're in restraints. That's what happens when you do something stupid like try to off yourself in a hospital. Here, drink some water."

A straw was pressed to his cracked lips. He sensed it rather than saw it being lifted up as he gratefully swallowed the cooling liquid down his burning throat.

"Easy. Take it easy. Not too fast or you'll choke."

Just as he heard these words, House gagged and began to cough.

"See? Don't be such a greedy bastard. No need to rush."

House coughed a few more times before he croaked, "How do you know I didn't just make another attempt on my life? By drowning myself."

"Waterboarding through a straw? You really are pathetic, you know that?"

House forced himself not to smile. The straw was placed against his mouth again and he took a few more swallows.

"How do you feel?"

He couldn't place the voice. It was definitely familiar. Feminine but slightly husky, its tone was deeper but in a still womanly and sensual manner.

It wasn't Wilson that was for sure. House doubted Wilson would ever want to see him or speak to him again. Not after this. Not after screwing up this badly, not after letting his best friend down . . . again.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" House said.

"Probably because they want to know."

"No they don't. People only say that because they can't think of anything else to say."

"I think when people ask you that question in a hospital, it's a pretty good bet they really want to know how you feel. Not because it's an ice breaker at a cocktail party."

"Still a stupid question. The people in this hospital already know I got run over by a car."

"And then you followed that stunt with a suicide attempt. Who's the stupid one in this scenario?"

House tried again not to crack a smile. "If you were sent from the psych department, you're doing a crappy job. Don't they tell you posers you shouldn't insult a person who's just attempted suicide?"

"Don't care. I call 'em the way I see 'em. Besides, I wasn't sent from the psych department."

House opened his heavy eyelids again. But this time, he kept them open, determined to make sense of the swirling patterns of light and color that slowly began to settle into the familiar shapes of his hospital room.

And one shape he hadn't laid eyes on in a long, long time.

House's unremitting gaze made his visitor shrink ever so slightly. It had been some time since she had seen those eyes but she could not help feeling a slight flutter at their brilliant color. At the same time she felt her heart plummet in her breast at the haunted, hopeless expression they held within.

"So are you from someone else's psych department then? Is this a professional or a social call? Either way, I'd say your timing is impeccable. Just got in under the wire. You almost missed me."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

House took in the blonde hair, the slight figure. He closed his eyes again, trying to blot out not only her presence but his own, scattered thoughts.

"Well since I don't believe in an afterlife, I have to accept that you're really here. Which means that _I'm_ still here and that my attempt to put an end to my boredom was a dismal failure."

House heard a chair being dragged across the floor, coming closer to his bed. He also heard her, with a small sigh, settle herself into the chair.

"So you're saying you wanted to die because you were bored? And since you just admitted that you don't believe in an afterlife, you were going to trade living in boredom for the ultimate boredom of being dead? Of rot and decay? You really are a complete tool."

This time House was unable to keep the grin from crossing his lips. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "I bet you do."

House was finally able to settle the shapes dancing about in his vision. She shivered as she met his now focused clear blue eyes, as she heard him say with bitterness, "So why are you here? To thank me? You can show your gratitude by blowing me and then getting the hell out of here."

"Is that your regular fee?" she asked without flinching as she stood up. "Well I certainly don't want to get a reputation for not paying my debts."

A single step brought her close to him. She leaned closer still, filling House's nostrils with the heady scents of vanilla and honeysuckle that made his head feel like it was spinning once more. He felt her small hands touch the top of his blankets.

House's hands jerked against the restraints that held him fast.

"No," he said looking at her and then looking away.

"What's the matter? No longer want your blow job?"

"Just get out," House said, closing his eyes. "Leave me alone."

"No, no. I never Welsh on a bet. And I always pay my debts. So what's a little hummer between friends? Seems a small price to pay for saving my life."

She reached for the blankets again.

"I said get out!" House said, his eyes flying open again, flashing electric blue in his anger.

"Worried about me seeing the bandages for your missing leg? Don't worry House. That's not the leg I'm interested in."

"Leave. Me. Alone." House said, his voice low and dangerous.

She left her hands on the covers. Underneath, she could feel his chest rise and fall with his increased respiration, could feel his heart pounding against his ribs as if it were an enraged animal beating against the bars of its cage.

Good. Anger was good. Much more productive than self-pity and suicidal depression.

She looked from her hands still resting on his chest up the length of his long neck to his flushed face. A wild fury contorted his handsome features. But his eyes were wide with naked fear.

She brushed the blankets laying across him as if she were merely making up the bed.

"God you're beautiful when you're angry," she said. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Confusion sailed across House's sea-blue eyes momentarily. And then a sense of highly practiced self-control followed like a wave and dropped the mask once more.

"I get that all the time too. In between being called a tool and an ass."

"And a jerk?" she said with a smile.

"Not necessarily in that order."

She brushed her fingers across his chest again, this time to satisfy her own need rather than his. She allowed her hand to linger upon his body for a few moments longer before settling again into her chair.

There was an awkward silence for awhile before House said, "So what are you doing here? Really."

"I came here to see an old friend. Thought I'd stop by Princeton as I'm still an adjunct professor here. I also wanted to personally thank the man who saved my life. But if I'd known that you'd want me to show my appreciation by giving you a blow job, I would have come much sooner."

"I'll say you would have come sooner. And a lot more often. I would have made sure of that," House replied, a sly smile just barely crossing his lips, reclaiming a bit of his old bravado now that she was no longer standing over him.

"But I didn't save your life," he said. "I only diagnosed you. The guy who drank your pee and drilled a hole in your head saved your life."

Dr. Cate Milton smiled again. "Because you told him to. If you hadn't . . ."

"Where is urine breath anyway? I thought you two would have gotten hitched and set up housekeeping in your own private igloo by now."

Cate's smile melted away, her expression turning melancholy. "The only things that mate in Antarctica are penguins. And even they don't mate for life. I guess because once they leave their glacier, it's a whole different story. Your life changes when you return to the open ocean."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" House said. "Did Mark . . ."

"Sean," she corrected.

"Yeah whatever. Did Sean realize there were plenty more fish in the sea? Or did he find himself another bird? Maybe he was actually gay and he left you for some guy in a tuxedo," House smiled, obviously enjoying baiting her. "You really do need to be more specific with your metaphors. Maybe you should leave them to the people who really know what they're doing with them. Like me."

Cate had turned away from him momentarily. But as she spoke, she turned her face to meet his eyes once more.

"It just didn't work, that's all. Things were different once we left the station and got back to civilization. Things . . . life got . . . harder."

House laughed one quick, short bark of a laugh. It sounded foreign even to his own ears doubtless from long neglect.

"You're kidding right?" he asked. "Life was harder in the real world than on a God-forsaken glacier where it's pitch black for six months of the year and the average temperature is what? Like 70 below? Sounds like someone's expectations were completely out of whack. And since Steve . . ."

"Sean."

". . . Willingly drilled into your head which can only mean that he was more than willing to drill you, then my guess would be that _you_ were the one who dumped _him_."

Cate neither smiled nor frowned but continued to look steadily at him. "Your guess would be wrong. Stop deflecting. And stop projecting. You're the one doing the ultimate tap dance to either end your life or push anybody who cares about you away. Which reminds me, where's Wilson?"

For a moment, House looked noticeably rattled. He closed his eyes. "On sabbatical."

"When?"

"Last week I think."

"Before or after your suicide attempt?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It obviously does."

House's volume increased. "Listen, if Wilson needs to take a break from my crap he's better off for it."

"Not if your crap is a cry for help."

House's eyelids flew open. A blue flame of rage like a welder's arc shone in his eyes. "Is that what you think? Are you comparing me to some sort of pathetic teenage girl who didn't get asked to the prom?"

Cate lowered her voice, "That's not what I said. I wasn't minimizing your actions. Or your pain."

"Then I didn't mean it? I was just putting on a dog and pony show for someone else's benefit?"

Cate spoke more forcefully this time. "No House. I believe a man like you, a man in your situation was deadly serious about ending your life when you took those pills. But it doesn't change the fact that EVERY suicide attempt is a cry for help."

House leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes again. He took a deep breath, holding it for a second before letting the air out in a violent exhalation.

"Ow," he said.

"What?"

"Ribs still hurt. I broke a few."

"Saving your ex-girlfriend's daughter?"

House opened his eyes and looked at her from beneath his brow. "Someone's certainly done their homework. What else do you know? And who told you? I'd like to know so that I can sue them for breach of doctor/patient privacy."

Cate smiled. "Ah, but the trick with lawsuits is that you have to stick around to actually file them. You have to stick around longer, a lot longer, if you want to actually collect any money."

"Maybe I'll file in absentia. I'll have Wilson do it when he gets back. Or you could do it for me."

"Nope. Anything legal, you gotta handle on your own."

"Hmmmm," House mused. "Seems more like a transparent effort to keep me from making another suicide attempt."

Cate leaned back in her chair as she relaxed into the banter between House and herself. Strangely enough, House seemed to be enjoying it as well.

"Could be," she said. "I guess the only way for you to find out is for you to hang around awhile."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11: Better Stay Away From Those, That Carry Around a Fire Hose**_

"What kind of bogus school for psychiatry did you go to anyway?" House said, a wry sort of smile playing about his lips. "Don't you know better than to say the word 'hang' to a guy who's recently tried to off himself?"

Cate blushed self-consciously as she watched House slowly lick his lips. Gathering herself, she responded, "I had no idea you'd take exception to that. I mean don't your sponge bath nurses discuss how well 'hung' you are? Are you offended by them too?"

A small, decidedly wicked grin crossed his features and Cate felt her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of crimson. Not long ago, this same man had tried to end his life. But right now, with her, he was very reactive and very much alive. House was enticing, teasing her with his clever words, his heady voice, his stunning eyes.

When had he turned the tables on her and taken control of the conversation? Or had she been a fool to think she had ever had the upper hand over their banter or anything else involving House?

"I'm never offended by the truth," he said still looking intensely at her, his expression turning more than slightly predatory which sent shivers down her spine. "But now I really AM going to bring charges against this hospital. Not only have my doctors been telling you the truth about me and how I got my injuries but my sponge bath nurses as well? It's not my fault I'm hung like a six foot, two and a half inch barnacle. Is nothing private any more? Nothing sacred?"

Cate laughed, releasing just a bit of the tension she felt vibrating between them. "Excellent choice from the animal kingdom House. Because as I recall from biology class, for its size, the barnacle has . . ."

"Yeah I know. The biggest penis in the animal kingdom."

"And since you're a six foot, two inch barnacle . . ."

"At your service. And that's six foot, two and a HALF inches of service. Let's stick to the facts shall we?"

Cate placed her hand over her heart in an obvious overdramatization. "But of course. What on earth came over me?"

"Not sure. Just don't ever let it happen again, okay?"

"I'll try," she said humbly. "I must admit however that your animal analogies aside, I really put more faith in the timeless, tried and true method for the accurate measure of a man . . . and his manhood."

House blinked. "Which is?"

"The direct correlation between shoe size and penis . . ."

"Twelve and a half. Oh and that's my shoe size as well."

"Everybody lies House."

"Don't take my word for it. You can take a look for yourself. I'm still tied down. Can't stop you."

Cate leaned forward in her chair. "Is that an invitation?"

"No," he answered a bit too quickly. "But I can't stop you from looking at my feet you perverted foot fetishist you. Gotta warn you first though. It is a little cold in this room so my toes may not be extended to their fullest length."

Cate laughed, a wonderful hearty laugh that suddenly made House wish his arms weren't locked to his bedframe but around her instead.

"Okay," she said. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." Then she grinned lecherously at him, "Would you like me to warm you up before I break out my ruler?"

House looked shocked for a moment. But only for a moment. "Wow," he said. "You really missed some key lectures when you were studying for the ethics portion of your psychiatry degree didn't you?"

"How many times do I have to tell you? You're not my patient." She stood up. "And I'm not your doctor. Don't deflect."

Cate noticed House looked a bit anxious, even frightened when she stood up. He quickly composed his features once more however as she stepped closer to the bedside.

"I'm not deflecting. Just stating a point of fact. And what I'm saying is I'm not buying this whole 'visiting a friend so I just happened to drop by' story of yours. You were sent for. Who called you? Foreman?"

"No one 'sent for' me. I told you the truth. Whether you want to believe it or not is entirely up to you. Now," she said, placing her hand palm down on his blanketed stomach. House jerked futilely against his restraints in response. "About that offer of warming you up. Yes? No? Which is it? And no more sidetracks or deflections."

"How long since you and the penguin broke up? God you're desperate. Or horny. Or both."

Cate slid her hand just slightly lower causing House to once again tug against his fetters. "Why desperate? Maybe I'm just . . . curious. Or co-dependent."

House narrowed his eyes. "That's it isn't it? You think if you can get me off, you'll jump-start not only my libido but my will to live?"

"I did say 'curious' first. And there's nothing wrong with a little healthy curiosity." She moved her hand to her objective and saw House make a futile attempt to break his bonds again before he rolled his eyes back into his head and closed them, relaxing into his pillow and letting loose a soft hiss between his lips.

She squeezed him gently and felt him immediately harden beneath her grasp. As long as it had been for her, it had obviously been a lot longer for him. She watched as his hips involuntarily rose to meet her hand as she continued to manipulate him.

House released a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. So many thoughts raced through his brain as he unconsciously yielded to his body's current need.

For so long now, everyone around him had been treating him with kid gloves, like a leper, like some pathetic animal who'd run out into traffic and been hit by a car. He hated their pity, scorning their vain attempts to help as he wallowed in his own pain.

But here finally was someone who was not afraid to argue with him, who'd called him on every deflection, opposed him and teased him, like he was normal. More than that, she treated him like a man, or more accurately, like the son-of-a-bitch bastard he'd always been.

Now she had even gone so far as to treat him as a sex object.

And House was reveling in it.

He rolled his hips forward again and was immediately rewarded with an increase in pressure from her small hand.

"Please," he whispered, unable to stop himself, his breathing coming out in gasps as he kept his eyes closed.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked, pausing her activities.

House opened his eyes and saw her looking at him with one eyebrow raised questioningly. Cate felt the same tremble of desire run through her as it had done before. It vibrated from her hips to her knees and back again settling in a warm, fluid pool somewhere lower than her now plummeting stomach.

Did he even know how attractive he was? His eyes large and expressive and dilated with arousal, did he realize how damn sexy he could be?

"No," he answered in almost a whimper. He closed his eyes again and gripped the bed's side railings as he felt her hand slip underneath the bed covers and take hold of him again, this time with no sheets or blankets between them. This time the contact was pure skin on skin.

House moaned, low and quiet as she closed her fingers around him. Just as his body reacted to the overdose of pills, in the same way he once more he had no control over his physical self. His heart pounded deep within his chest and his breathing became more and more ragged as Cate worked him.

His hips took on a life of their own as they rose and fell against the mattress. The cold metal bars between his fingers stood out in stark contrast to the warmth of her soft hand gripping him, moving lower to lovingly cup him and then seizing his erection again as she methodically stroked, pumping him up and down.

Beset with his fears and his ever-present emotional pain, plagued by his past and uncertain about his future, unsure of everything in fact about his life and himself, in this brief moment he felt somehow normal again. Tied down with restraints, he felt free.

He wanted her. For the first time in a long time, he felt excited by a woman. Not just a hooker, but a woman with whom he could experience more than an emotionally detached business transaction. He grunted as he felt her slide along his considerable length, clasping him tenderly yet tightly.

He wanted to be inside her, to feel that other tightness, that other heat. He wanted to move with her, feel her naked body against his own, make her cry out with pleasure again and again until they were both drenched in sweat and her juices. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine her atop him, riding him down.

House felt the familiar swell and release as Cate deftly brought him to orgasm. He opened his mouth to cry out but he scarcely emitted a sound. Instead, two rapid breaths and a final low moan, barely a vibration of his vocal chords signaled his fall from the edge.

House felt himself wind down, keeping his eyes closed as he regained control of his breath and body, reluctantly allowing the fantasy of being inside her to drift from his mind. By the time he opened his eyes, Cate had already cleaned him and herself up. When he looked over at her, she smiled.

He wanted to thank her. He wanted to tell her how this was the first time, in such a very long time even long before the accident that he'd felt more like a man, more human, more like himself. That even he hadn't realized how much he'd needed this, wanted this, wanted her.

Instead he said softly, "Why?"

Cate chuckled. "You're kidding, right?" When House shook his head no, she continued.

"I don't know," she said, her expression turning serious. "Maybe because I just _wanted_ to. Maybe because _you_ wanted me to. Maybe because it was something we both not only wanted but needed." She smiled again, "Or maybe I just had to take advantage of you right now when you're tied down and totally in my power. Think of it. I just had the sexy, famous Dr. House completely in my grasp. Literally."

She raised her arm to show him her hand. "Well, not completely." Her smile grew wider. "There's no way I was ever going to _completely_ grasp something that huge. You weren't kidding with that twelve and a half business. In fact from what I could feel, I mean tell, you were being overly modest."

House returned her smile. "That's not all I was being modest about," he said, staring at her so boldly she felt herself begin to fidget under his unabashed stare.

He noticed.

"I am capable of _low balling_ my stats to keep the wow factor in tact right up until the big reveal," he said.

A wide smile crossed her face as her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and excitement. Looking at her, House felt a warm sensation flow over his entire body as if he'd just stepped out into the glare of the noonday sun. He relaxed, letting the feeling extend the mood of afterglow he was still experiencing.

Cate opened her lips for what was sure to be a witty retort when the sound of people opening the door and entering the room broke the strange spell both she and House seemed to be under.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12: Cause the Vandals Took the Handles**_

"Dr. House?" the nurse who entered first addressed him. "Oh, excuse me," she said, turning as she noticed Cate. "I didn't realize Dr. House had a visitor. He hasn't had any since Dr. Wilson left over a week ago."

"No," Cate said rising from the chair, "I'm not a visitor. I'm an adjunct professor here. I was called in on a consult regarding Dr. House's case. Just came onboard." She extended her right hand, "Dr. Cate Milton." She carefully avoided House's narrowed gaze as she shook the nurse's hand.

"Oh," the nurse said dropping her moist, limp hand to her side when Cate let go. "Well we're here to perform a medical procedure so I'm afraid you'll have to step outside."

"I'd like to stay if you don't mind."

"No . . . not at all," the nurse replied, the hesitation evident in her voice. "Well if you're staying, then maybe you can convince him to make this easier on all of us. If he'd only . . ."

"You go to hell," House growled.

They all turned to look at him. In a matter of moments, House's demeanor had changed completely. He was sitting up slightly, on alert, his whole body tensed, his fists clenching and pulling against his restraints obviously readying himself for a fight.

And Cate noticed his eyes. His formerly languid gaze had turned to an expression of wrathful terror. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise in response to the increasing tension in the room.

And in anticipation of what was about to happen.

"Now Dr. House," the nurse said, striding forward once more, "Are we going to have to go through this again?"

House spat at her.

The nurse nodded her head slightly to the male orderly who had been standing behind her. He moved forward, close to House's head.

"Wait," Cate said, moving closer to the now frantically struggling House. Too late. His latest attacker had by this time successfully strapped House's head to the mattress. His eyes were rolling madly and he continued to pull his fists against the bars of his bed making a discordant clanking sound.

"What are you going to do to him?" Cate asked.

"Feeding tube. He's been refusing meals and this hospital frowns on allowing any of our patients to commit suicide by downing pills or . . ." she turned her attention back to House, raising her voice to him as if he were an unruly child, ". . . starving themselves while under its care. Now, are you going to be a good boy and open your mouth?"

"This is cruel," Cate said, her own voice rising with her anger and consternation. "Surely you could use a sedative on him?"

The nurse turned back to Cate as she snapped on a pair of gloves and took up a tube from the nearby cart. "Sedation for this patient is completely unwarranted for this procedure," the nurse said coldly. "Of course, he could make things much easier on himself if he'd just cooperate. It's his own fault that this takes longer and is more difficult a process."

"But you don't have to manhandle him like this . . .," Cate began.

"This procedure has always been performed according to doctor's orders."

"Then your supervising physician is a sadist."

The nurse exhaled audibly. "If you are unable to allow us to do our jobs, then you will have to leave this room."

Cate looked over at the still struggling House who was cursing under his breath. Then she looked back at the nurse.

"No," she said stepping closer to House's side. "I'm not leaving him. I'm staying."

"Then please let us finish," the nurse said. "Besides, he'll be completely fine in just a minute."

"What do you mean 'fine?'" Cate said but stopped as the nurse walked right past her and addressed House again.

"Are you gonna open your mouth?"

House's eyes flashed dangerously and he emitted a low, animalistic growl between his clenched teeth.

Another nod from the nurse and the orderly grabbed House's nose and held it closed.

Cate's jaw dropped in horror at the same time as she instinctively grabbed for House's hand which was convulsing along the bed's side railing. As soon as her fingers touched his, he clutched at her, desperately holding onto her hand as if she were his lifeline.

She sucked in a quavering breath looking down at their joined hands. House's continued to shudder and tremble, the knuckles of his fist turning white while her own hand began to feel numb because of the violence of his grip. Like electricity running through a wire, she sensed him telegraph his fear, his panic, his anger into her through their joined hands.

But just as she was going to speak up for him again, House gave out a dejected groan and opened his mouth to gasp for air.

The nurse, evidently from studied practice, was ready. She pounced on him like a spider on an insect, snaking the tube past his teeth before he could even let loose a shriek of fury.

"There. There you go," she said in a soothing tone that rang exaggerated and false, "Breathe through your nose. Relax. Relax your throat. It's okay to swallow."

Angry tears had formed in House's eyes as he gagged on the tube continuing to be fed down his esophagus.

"Now, almost there. Yes, watch him. We're almost there," the nurse was speaking again still without a hint of genuine compassion. Then she said, "Okay, there he goes."

Cate looked from House's hand, which had suddenly gone slack, to his face. She gasped when she saw the completely hollow expression in his eyes. The formerly kinetic blue was glazed over and his entire face and body had gone totally lifeless.

House had stopped fighting entirely and in fact, if Cate had not checked the nearby heart and respiration monitors, she would have thought he was dead.

"See?" said the nurse. "I told you. No need for sedatives on this patient. He does this every time."

"He's . . . he's . . . catatonic?" Cate said.

"Oh yes."

"He's not faking?"

"Nope. Prove it to you." She addressed the orderly. "Take off his restraints."

The orderly moved to release House's head, then took both hands out of the straps that had secured him to the bed. House's arms flopped uselessly to his sides. The nurse picked up one of his arms and let it drop. House hit himself with a soft thud.

"Can't fake that," the nurse said a bit too cheerfully as she continued to work. "I just wish he'd do this sooner. Instead of giving us so much crap in the beginning."

"And he does this every time?" Cate asked.

"Yep. Like clockwork. Right at the point when we've successfully intubated him . . ."

"Right when he's lost the battle and continuing to fight would be futile," Cate corrected.

"Yeah, I guess so. But like I said, I really wish he'd do this sooner and make our jobs that much easier. This crap is really unnecessary."

Cate nodded her head but to what she was actually agreeing to, the nurse thankfully had no idea. She stood back and let the staff finish the procedure. After the tube was taken out of House's throat, his hands but not his head were re-secured to the bed.

Then everyone left the room except for Cate who once more moved the chair close to House's bedside, sat down upon it, clasped his insensible right hand with both of her own and wept.

Cate cried herself into an uncomfortable sleep. She slept for over an hour until the regular nurse making rounds came in to take House's blood pressure and vital statistics. The nurse accidentally bumped Cate's chair just as she was finishing up. When she did, Cate was roused from her fitful slumbers.

Upon opening her eyes, she immediately looked up into House's face, tightening her grip on his right hand. The cobalt blue eyes stared back at her, still vacant, still devoid of life, of hope.

She squeezed his hand and waited for the nurse to leave before she spoke.

"House? House? Can you hear me? I'm still here. I won't leave you."

She pressed his hand again and almost laughed out loud when she felt his fingers move within her grasp.

Cate looked at House just as he blinked twice and then gave an almighty gasp. He croaked, "No!" and began thrashing his head.

"It's okay," she said. "It's okay now. I'm here. It's me, Cate. Can you hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Of course I can," House said hoarsely as he stilled. "I didn't suddenly become an idiot."

"Do you know where you are?"

House coughed several times. Cate stood and brought him a cup of water, offering him a drink. He turned his head away.

"Why do you keep talking to me like I'm some sort of moron? Asking me stupid questions?"

Cate clenched her jaw. "Because you were out of it. Really out of it. And I'm trying to check how alert you are now."

House quieted, finally acquiescing to taking a few sips from the straw that she still held in front of him. Looking up at her somewhat sheepishly, he asked, "How long?"

"An hour at least. Do you . . . do you remember what happened?"

"Of course I do," he said from the corner of his mouth as he looked away again.

"And you do that every time . . .?"

"YES!" The lines in his forehead deepened as he furrowed his brow. "Now, can we please talk about something else?"

Cate nodded her head. "Of course. What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything. Anything else."

"Alright," Cate said before sitting back down and taking hold of his hand once more. She inhaled, held the breath for a few seconds and let it out audibly as she said, "Then let's talk about how old you were when you were first molested."


End file.
